


La Douleur Exquise

by dreadpiratewatson



Series: To Build A Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angry John, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Boys In Love, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Evil Mary, Idiots in Love, John Loves Sherlock, John and Sherlock really love each other and they really just need to be together, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Kidnapped Sherlock, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Minor Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Protective John, Requited Love, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Loves John, mormor, they need to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-10 08:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4384454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadpiratewatson/pseuds/dreadpiratewatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>La Douleur Exquise: The exquisite pain of loving someone you know you can never have.</p><p>Ilunga: A person willing to forgive abuse the first time; tolerate it the second time, but never a third time.<br/>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br/>After a night at the pub with Sherlock, John agrees to go back to Baker St. to look at a case before returning home to Mary. But, the night is cut short when both men are knocked unconscious, and Sherlock goes missing. Armed with only a gun, and a strange file left at Baker St., John realizes he should have left Mary the first time she put a gun to Sherlock's chest, but this time, he might actually be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I promised I would get this up, so I thought I would do it now. I said in my last story that this story would be called Married Life, but I changed it last minute, so I hope that's okay with you guys, and I apologize for any confusion. 
> 
> Anyhow, this story is almost completely written out, and it's full of some crazy twists and turns, and it's pretty suspenseful, so I hope you guys like it. I've been working on this and editing it since October, but I think I finally have it right. 
> 
> I love you all, and I feed off of comments, criticism, and kudos, so please tell me what you think! 
> 
> Stevie

Married Life.

Simple, quiet, mundane.

A man of almost forty steps out of the cab, grabs his grocery bags and steps inside his flat by the street. It's his day off from the clinic, so he puts the food away, makes himself a cup of tea, then sits in front of the television and puts on a mind numbing show. He doesn't pay much attention, eventually getting up to do a little house work, which isn't anything he enjoys, but he deals.

His wife comes home at half past five, they greet each other with a kiss, and proceed to the kitchen to prepare dinner. She cooks the chicken while he makes the vegetables and they maneuver around the tiny kitchen with ease. At dinner they sit on opposite sides of the table, they talk about work and the slightly over cooked vegetables, although it's just mindless teasing. They both drink water, since he doesn't drink and she can't, due to the baby growing in her belly.

After dinner, the couple moves to the living room where they put on a movie they both enjoy, barely speaking, just lounging in each other's arms, then it's up to bed at a quarter to midnight. The woman takes off her day's make up and steps in the shower, while her husbands lays in bed, a mystery novel in his lap. The two talk to each other from the opposite rooms, and eventually, the wife comes out to join her husband in bed. The lights go out, they curl up beside one another, and they both try to sleep, since they both have work early the next morning.

Married life.

Simple, quiet, mundane.

And John Watson hates every minute of it.

** _______________  **

Across town, a second man of nearly the same age sits silently on the couch, hands folded in front of his face as if he were praying, his breathing even, his eyes closed. In his head, he's walking up the steps of a palace all his own, sorting through his thoughts as a case lays out in front of him.

It's a very simple case, double murder in a parking garage, man and a women, obviously committed by an ex-girlfriend out of jealously. And idiot could figure it out, but he still took the case. Helped with the boredom.

It's nearly two before the man opens his eyes again, and the darkness of the flat confuses him, as it was only six o'clock when he first started. He resists the urge to call out to someone who he knows is no longer there, and eventually, with an exasperated sigh, he goes to put the kettle on the stove.

The flat is too quiet.

The man is used to quiet, normally, he prefers it, but this... This is a new type of quiet.

There's no soft rustling of pages as his flatmate flips through some dull mystery book, or the tapping of keys as his flatmate types up something on his blog. There's no thumping on the ground as his flatmate walks across the floor, or his flatmate bothering him to eat something. Even during the day, he'll sit there and talk to the ghost of the man in his chair about the cases on his desk, listen to his stupid comments and attempt to make him understand. It sometimes doesn't occur to him until very late that he's been holding a conversation with a chair, to which he tries to forget.

The quiet is too much.

He needs a destruction.

The man pulls out his phone and texts the Detective Inspector who scolds him for waking him up at two in the morning. The man explains he's finished the case and needs another. _Sherlock, you know you can't keep working like this._ The Detective Inspector texts. _When was the last time you slept?_

The man sighs and just asks for another case. Sleeping is boring.

With much reluctance, the DI tells him to come by the office at ten and he'll have something for him then. He still worries about the man, even now, year later, but he knows he can't reason with him.

Knowing he's not tired, the man takes out his violin and begins to play a classical tune he had been working on for a few weeks, not really caring if his landlady hears him. He plays until the sun begins to come up and he once again makes the mistake of calling out to his flatmate, although he knows he can't hear him. He's not there anymore.

He knows he shouldn't feel so upset, he works better by himself anyway, his best friend is happy, he should be content with the situation. But... Being alone again, in an empty flat, it starts to become too much.

Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. Known for his lack of emotion and distaste for sentiment. Brilliant and better off on his own. Solving case after case after case for Scotland Yard, catching killers and doing an awful lot of running. His life is back to the way it was.

And he hates every minute of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! I was too excited to not post. ^^

The phone call was brief.

"Hey, Sherlock, I get off at six, I was wondering if you want to go get a drink with me. No graduated cylinders this time, though. Okay. Bye."

22.6 seconds. That's all it lasted.

John was between patients at the clinic, and he had a few minutes to himself. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in nearly a month, and he had to admit that he missed the overbearing prat.

Life for him was normal. He worked almost daily at the clinic now, he was helping people like he wanted to, like he had trained to do, but nothing would ever compare to the 'world's-only-consulting-detective's-assistant' job that he had over-indulged himself in on more than one occasion. He loved his job, he did, there was no denying that, but, he missed solving cases. He didn't want to admit it, and if Mary asked, he would deny it until the day he died, but, he missed it. It was impossible to tell if Mary was okay with the idea of him going back to it, especially after the Moriarty scare. She seemed to have no opinion on the subject, but of course, he'd never ask her, just in case she wasn't. She asked about the detective, sure, but she knew as well as he did that there was no telling.

The days would drag on like they always did, and every day, Sherlock Holmes seemed more and more like a footprint on the beach standing against the upcoming tide. The sun would rise, the sun would fall, and the patients seemed to blend together. He once said to an old girlfriend at one point that mundane was good, but now things were becoming a bit excessive.

Sherlock called John back at five thirty. The doctor's heart let out a sigh of relief at the sight of his friend's name and he couldn't press the button fast enough. "Hey."

"What do you mean a drink?" Sherlock asked.

"Pardon?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

John couldn't help but sigh at the confusion in his voice. He had to remember that Sherlock never just went out for a drink, and it always made him a little sad how Sherlock never seemed to understand what the concept of being friends meant.

The doctor looked briefly at the clock to check the time. "I get off in half an hour, and I thought, maybe, if you weren't busy, you'd want to meet up for a drink." He explained. "I mean, we haven't seen each other in a while, so I thought..."

"Just the two of us?" Sherlock interrupted.

John laughed to himself. "Yes, Sherlock, just the two of us."

"You want to go for a drink with me?"

"That's what friends do."

There was a pause and the sound of shuffling in the background before Sherlock spoke again. "Is everything alright?"

The question confused him, and he had to do a double take. "Yes. Yes, of course everything's alright. Why?" He asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, normally one doesn't just call a friend to meet him for a drink unless there's something wrong." He commented. The detective sounded uncertain and otherwise preoccupied. Must be a case.

"Look, if you're busy, I don't want to bother you, I just thought..."

"No!" Sherlock intercepted, a little too quickly, which was very unlike him. "No, I'd love to."

John was just about to turn the detective's question around and ask him if he was alright, but there was a soft knock at the door that cut him off.

"John?" Mary called to him. "Mrs. Keller is here."

"Thank you, Mary." He replied. "Listen, Sherlock, I've got to go, my last appointment is here. I'll see you in about forty minutes?"

"Of course."

The doctor nodded. "Right. See you soon." The line went dead, and he slipped it into his coat pocket, wishing he could make time go faster.

The last patient was simple, just some stitches for wound that the old lady received from a garden tool, nothing he couldn't handle. Once she had gone, John was packing up his things and Mary decided to come in, all dressed in her overly bright red pea coat, her purse on her arm. "Ready to go?" She asked in her normal chipper voice.

He hesitated. He didn't want to tell her he was meeting with Sherlock, just in case she thought he was going to go back to the cases, but lying would do nothing. It was impossible to lie to Mary, and he promised he would always tell her the truth. All hatchets had been buried since _that night,_ and he had been just dying his hardest to move on from it. "I'm actually going out for a drink with Sherlock." He told her. "So, I'll be home late."

The blonde's face changed very briefly, but she quickly smiled. "Oh, good, good. I'll catch you at home then?"

He nodded. "Yeah, don't wait up though. Love you." He said hurriedly as he kissed her goodbye.

"Love you, too."

** ________________  **

John made it to the pub first. He ordered a beer for him and Sherlock and just waited. This would have been the first time since his stag night that he and Sherlock had a drink together. The stag night had been a near disaster, although seeing Sherlock Holmes completely shitfaced was rather comical. They had passed out on the stairs together, their closeness alone being gossip worthy, but neither one of them found it awkward at all. All the dancing and drinking was so out of habit for Sherlock, but John loved that he was having fun. The man needed it.

He didn't have to wait long for his friend to show up. After about ten minutes of waiting, the detective made his way through the doors of the pub, removed his gloves and searched for John over the crowd. He looked a bit uncomfortable, but perhaps it was just the setting. "Sherlock!" John called out to him.

The detective gazed over at his friend, his expression softening. He quickly took made his way across the pub. "Hello, John."

"Hey. I got you a pint already."

"Thank you." Sherlock took off his long, dark coat and threw it over the chair. He took a casual drink from his mug and set it back down, all traces of the initial discomfort he came in with subsiding. "Nice to see you."

"Nice to see you too." John replied as he gave his best friend a once over. He didn't seem to have changed too much since they saw each other last, his dark, bouncy curls sitting in ringlets on top of his head, although it was a bit longer than it was the last time they met up. He was as clean shaven as always, but Sherlock always had impeccable personal hygiene. He was still way too skinny, and John felt the urge to repeat his natural habit of asking him when the last time he ate was, but he didn't want to ruin the moment. It wasn't that important right now. "How've you been?"

Sherlock nodded his head. "Fine. How's married life?" He asked.

"Just fine. Mary and I are good, the baby's good, everything's good."

He was almost disappointed that he didn't have anything more to say about it, but that was the only thing he could think of. Married life was good, despite what had happene, he was excited about the baby, but it was nothing compared to his old life. It was just a lot of the same patterns over and over. He wished he could express just how much he missed the cases.

Instead, he just drank some more of his beer. "You sounded distracted when you called me earlier. Were you working a case?"

The detective nodded. "Double homicide. Two women were run over multiple times in a parking garage. They had nothing in common, so the motive was unclear, so naturally, Lestrade called me in, despite how obvious everything was. I finished the case in a few hours." He answered.

Just the words 'double homicide' sent a familiar chill down John Watson's spine. One he loved. One he felt guilty about, but secretly adored. "So, who did it? Sounds like a hate crime." He offered.

"Wasn't a hate crime." Sherlock's face twisted up with pride as it always did when things like this happened. He loved being the smartest one in the room. "Quite the opposite actually, the driver of the car was drunk, she wasn't paying attention and she hit the first girl. She realized what she had done, saw another girl who got hysterical, so the girl panics and hit her too. It was a simple case, like I said."

John let out a laugh. "Simple to you."

"Of course it's simple to me, everyone else is an idiot."

Normally, the doctor would retaliate, but he only rolled his eyes. "I'm glad you're enjoying the cases." He told him, although in his mind, he wished he could be doing them with him.

Sherlock studied him carefully. "You miss it." He noted with a hopeful undertone.

John shrugged.

"You're a liar."

"You can tell, of course."

"Of course, I can."

John leaned back against the bar stool. Lying to Sherlock was more impossible than lying to Mary. "I miss it sometimes." After seeing the look on his best friend's face, he sighed. "Alright, alright, I miss it a lot."

A very satisfied, very happy smile spread across Sherlock's face. "Would you like to come on another case? Just for old time's sake?" He asked excitedly.

"Sherlock, you know I can't." He replied. "Not with work, and Mary, and the baby coming soon, I can't." But,  _God_ did he want to.

The detective frowned and pulled his eyes away from his friend's face. "Oh." Was his only reply.

There was a pause in the conversation as the two men tried to scramble their minds for something to say. It had been hard in the beginning for the both of them, as it was now. John wanted to come back to it. He couldn't keep lying to himself, he hated this mundane life he was living. He missed the danger, he missed the adrenaline, but most of all, he missed Sherlock Holmes. He missed his best friend more than anything.

And he wasn't alone.

Sherlock would never say a word of this to his best friend's face, but he hated his married life just as much as John did. He didn't want to believe Mrs. Hudson when she said marriage changed people, but it did. It changed everything between them. They were still very close, but now they were apart all of the time. But, Sherlock would never dare say anything. He wouldn't hurt John like that, and of course, she had been the one to pick up the pieces when he was pretending to be dead. There was a time, a long time ago now, that both men thought John would come home to Baker St., and everything would be perfect again, but then came Magnussen, and Sherlock killed him to save Mary. John went away after that, after the Moriarty case went cold, and all Sherlock could do was smile. He would never purposely make him choose between them when John had clearly already chosen.

John cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to break the awkward silence. "So, um..."

"I'm glad things are going well for you, John." Sherlock uttered, although it was strained.

A small, sad smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You too."

The detective drained his beer, made a rather disgusted face, and then got to his feet. "Well." He started to say as he threw his coat over his shoulders. "I have some more cases at home, so I should be going."

John's heart dropped to his stomach. "Oh, yeah. Of course." He replied awkwardly. "I have work tomorrow anyway."

"Of course." Sherlock nodded briskly. "Thank you for inviting me out, John, it was nice to see you."

The doctor smiled up at his friend, wishing he could go with him. "Thank you for coming. Have fun with your murders." He joked.

"Oh, I will." Sherlock replied. "Unless of course... You'd like to come take a look at the cases with me. Just to look. You'd be home before midnight."

Although it was bad to give into temptation, Sherlock was like a drug, and John Watson was an addict with no intention to stop. _Why not?_ John smirked and grabbed his coat. "I guess I could take just _one_ look."

The two men shared a look as they rushed out of the noisy pub on the corner and began the walk back to 221B. John's heart was pounding in his chest. Although it was never said allowed, both men elected to not take a cab. They wanted to spend the most time they could together before John had to return to his wife. Although John lived with Mary in a flat across town, he would always, always consider 221B Baker St his home. He knew those creaky wooden floors like he knew medical procedures and he could easily walk them in the dark. He couldn't wait to be back.

"By the way, John, when we get there, _don't_ look in the fridge." Sherlock ordered as they walked.

The doctor looked up at him in confusion. "Why not?"

"Because, I'm doing an experiment and I need the temperature to stay the same, so don't open it."

At that point in their relationship, John had learned not to question the silly little experiments his old flatmate used to perform on body parts he got from Molly. He was used to it.

When they came up near Baker St., they stepped foot into an alley way as they often did back when they lived together. They walked briskly against the windy night as 221B came into their line of vision.

"So, what is this case you want me to look at?" John asked, looking up at the younger man.

Sherlock smiled. He obviously missed hearing that. "Oh, you'll love it, John, there was a-"

The men were suddenly cut off as a group of men emerged from the shadows and attacked them. John didn't even have time to reach for the gun in his jacket pocket before he was thrown the ground. The men began kicking the doctor, allowing him to watch in horror as the other men brought Sherlock to the ground. He tried to scream out to him, but he was cut off again with more blows to his face, stomach and rip cage. He couldn't breathe. He could taste blood in his mouth and he spit a mouthful of it into the street. He couldn't see Sherlock anymore on the ground but just as he was losing consciousness, he saw them throw the consulting detective into the back of a van and drive away, completely out of his sight.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sherlock._

_Where's Sherlock?_

John Watson's mind was an incoherent mess. He was swimming in the dark catacombs of his thoughts, unable to open his eyes, unable to think of anything more to say...

_Sherlock..._

His head felt heavy, and his mouth was dry. His throat was scratchy, like he had swallowed sandpaper. He could taste blood, and there was a spot on his tongue where he had bitten down on it that was pulsing from the pain.

"Sher... Sherlock?"

As the doctor slipped slowly back into consciousness, he began to feel a bit more aware of his surroundings. The air around him was warm, and in the distance, he could hear a furnace blowing the heat through the vents. He could smell dust and the light aroma of chemicals. Cleaning supplies? No... No, it was something else. What was it? He knew that smell, he recognized it, he _knew_ he had smelled it before...

John forced his unwilling eyes to open, and was momentarily blinded by the lighting of the room. He quickly clamped them shut again and hurled himself forward, realizing he was strapped to something on the ground. He was beginning to gain the feeling back in his wrists, and he could feel the restraints holding his hands bellow him to the wooden chair he was sitting in. It felt like rope. His mind continued to swim, but he tried to organize his thoughts. The next few minutes were very important.

_Step one: Determine if there in anyone else in the room. If alone, proceed with step two. If not, locate them without proceeding. Don't let them know you're awake. You've already spoken, you can't mess up again._

John remained absolutely stagnate for more than two minutes, not even allowing himself to breathe. He listened for breathing, creaking floorboards, light tapping, anything that would indicate the presence of another person in the room. Besides the occasional dull roar of a car rolling by or the sound of the furnace kicking on, there was nothing.

_Step two: Open eyes. Look around. Miss nothing._

The doctor opened his eyes slowly, trying to ease the horrendous ache on the side of his head where he had been struck. It took him less than a minute to realize where he actually was. Suddenly, everything made sense; the warm air, the chemical smell... He'd recognize the setting of 221B Baker St. anywhere. His head snapped up and he ignored the pain, gazing around the room rapidly. He was alone, just like he guessed. He looked over his shoulder, and let out a sigh of relief. John was, like he assumed, tied down to a chair, but not like he originally thought. He wrists were tied, but not to the chair, around the chair. He could easily stand up and release himself. His feet weren't even tied down. _They were lazy._ He thought, going back to his attackers. _First mistake._

"Sherlock?" He called out, his voice rough.

No response.

_"Sherlock!"_

Once again, nothing.

John felt panic seep into his words, but he knew he had to keep going. He had to push himself into soldier mode if he wanted to figure this out.

_Step three: Get up._

John held his arms out as far as he could behind him, and very slowly got to his feet, removing them from the chair. He was free from it.

_Step four: Get untied._

He sat down on the ground and pulled his still tied hands underneath him and around his feet, wincing at the pain. He could feel the bruises and the scrapes in his arms and legs, but he couldn't be bother with that right now. Now that his hands were in front of him, he got a better look at the rope. It was actually twine, like someone would use in a garden. It was thick enough to where he knew he couldn't just pull it apart, but it was also thin enough to where it could easily be cut with scissors, which they had in a drawer in the kitchen.

With careful steps, the doctor crossed the living room into the kitchen where he pulled the scissors out of the drawer. He struggled to get them down far enough over the ropes without slicing his skin, but eventually, he was able to cut the twine. Once the twine was slit, he threw the scissors down on the counter, and unraveled his hands.

_Step five: Find Sherlock._

"Sherlock!" He called again, running back through the living room and throwing the door to the detective's bedroom door open. The room was absolutely trashed, which was very unlike him. Experiments were over turned, papers were everywhere, but there was no Sherlock Holmes. He was alone.

John swore under his breath. They took him.

Which meant he had no time to lose.

He threw the front door open and ran out to the street to haul a cab. He ordered the cabbie to take him back to his house, and waited anxiously in the back while they drove. While the drive itself would have normally been short, it felt like it was taking much too long. Every second he wasted, Sherlock was in danger somewhere.

Upon arriving at his house, he told the cabbie to wait for him outside, and said he'd only be a minute. He stormed through the front door, startling Mary, who was still sitting up on the couch watching telly. She looked up at him in alarm as he stomped back to their room to grab his gun.

"Hey!" She called after him, alarmed by his hostility. "John! John, what's happened?" She demanded as she heaved herself off of the couch. She was hugely pregnant now, due any day, and the baby was making it hard to move. "John, talk to me, what's happening?"

John threw the drawer open and pulled out the two guns that he hid under his jumpers. He quickly made sure they were loaded, then slipped them into the back of his jeans. By this time, Mary was already in the room with him, still utterly confused and terrified by her husband's actions, but he had no time for that. He had to find Sherlock.

"John Hamish Watson, what the _hell_ is going on? Where are you going?" She screamed again as he continued to ignore her.

"They took him." He growled. "They took Sherlock."

She hesitated. _"Who_ took Sherlock?"

The doctor stripped his work shirt off and threw on a dark t-shirt and jumper before pulling on his old boots. "I don't know yet. We were walking home from the pub, and we got attacked in an alleyway. They knocked us unconscious, threw him in a van and took him. I woke up at Baker St.. I need to find him."

Mary's expression changed from confusion to shock. She didn't seem to understand what she was hearing. "Are you..."

"I'm fine." He snapped, pushing past her and stomping out of the bedroom. "I'm going back to Baker St. Stay here. If anyone knocks at the door, hide. If anyone comes in, shoot them down." He ordered, leaving her in the dust as he slammed the door behind him. When he got back in the cab, he quickly called the one person who he knew could help him.

** __________________  **

_"Sheeeeeeeeerrrlock."_ A sugary sweet voice above the detective's head cooed. It sounded far away, like whoever it was across the room.

His whole body ached from the kicking and everything else he had been through while being kidnapped. The air around him was hot, much too hot, and he could feel sweat seeping into a cut on his right cheek, the saltiness making it burn.

From somewhere in the distance, there was a light chuckle that sent a shiver down his spine. "Wakey wakey, Sherlock Holmes." The voice crooned.

With a gasp, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He was staring at a ceiling made of cement and covered in ridiculous amounts of piping. The space around him was dimly lit, the only light source being the small glass plates on the wall that made strange pools of deep orange on the filthy ground. It was very open, despite the low ceiling. It was a basement, perhaps central London, deep underground, possibly basement floor. He knew that even if he yelled out for help, there would be no one to hear him. It was abandoned, and he was stuck. The detective was strapped down to a metal chair on the ground by both his ankles and his wrists. Whoever it was made sure that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Good to see you awake." Came the voice again. "You're much too clever to die."

His eyes swept over the floors, searching for the source of the voice. "I'm glad you think so!" He called in response, his voice echoing through the walls. "You've done a bang up job on my restraints. Is that why? Are you worried I'm clever enough to escape?"

Laughter. "You _are_ smart."

From behind one of the large cement pillars ahead, a small figure stepped out to greet him. It was a woman, average in height, but strong and lithe. She was dressed in all black, her outfit identical to Mary's the night she put a bullet through his chest. She didn't have a hat on, nor was she wearing gloves, but everything else was identical. Her pixie cut hair was dyed black, but Sherlock could tell by the very slightly grown out roots that she was in fact a natural blonde. She was in her very early thirties at the latest, English, but there was a light trace of a Ukrainian accent in her voice, obviously she hadn't lived there in a long time. Her eyes were a crisp ice blue, typical for the dialect and country. _Freelance assassin._

Cradled in her delicate fingers was a MP-443 Grach, a standard Russian military issued handgun. Her finger seemed to ghost right above the trigger, and as if he had missed some witty joke, a chilling smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Hello, Mr. Holmes." She purred.

Sherlock swallowed hard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little bit short! I hope you like it either way!!

"What the hell do you _mean_ Sherlock's been kidnapped?!" Mycroft demanded from the other end of the phone.

John passed a hand over his face. He was tired. He was angry. He was hoping to god the damn cabbie would hurry up. "Just what I said, Mycroft." He grumbled.

There was the light sound of scuffling in the background, as well as a few unintelligible voices. "What the _hell_ are you talking about? What happened?"

"Sherlock and I met up for a drink after work. He invited me back to Baker St. to look at a case, and we ended up getting jumped in an alleyway and thrown in a van. They took me back to Baker St., but I have no idea where they took him, and I don't know why they separated us." John explained quickly. He’d already briefed Greg Lestrade over text, and the Detective Inspector was on the case already. "Is there any way for you to track him?"

There was a gruff sigh from Mycroft, which sounded a lot like he was trying not to snap at John. "Does he have his mobile phone?"

"Of course he does." That was a dumb question, Sherlock always kept his mobile on him.

"I will try to locate him through that. Where are you?"

Just as Mycroft asked the question, the cab stopped outside of 221B. John quickly paid the fare and got out of the cab. "I'm at the flat. I'm going to look around. I may not be brilliant like you or Sherlock, but I can try." He answered as he stomped up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "There must be something I'm missing."

The elder Holmes hesitated. "What do you expect to find?"

"Not a fucking clue. I'll call you if I find anything." And with that, the call was over.

John Watson threw the door open and gazed around the flat that he once called his own. The chair he had been strapped to, was still sitting in the middle of the floor, and he took the liberty of placing it back in the kitchen where he saw the cut twine and the scissors. _I don't remember Sherlock ever owning twine, he had no use for it, so the kidnappers must have brought it with them. So unless they took it with them, it should still be here somewhere._ It wasn't exactly much to go on, but it was a start. The doctor began to search the flat, searching rooms, searching around on the floor, but eventually came up short. There was nothing. Sherlock's stuff was covering the table space as it always was, fingers in jars, a few eyes, some other random appendages that he was often experimenting on. John couldn't help but sigh as he looked at them. _Sherlock, don't you ever clean?_ After coming up short in the kitchen and dining room, he decided to check the detective's bedroom. He hadn't been in Sherlock's room for ages. It was possibly the cleanest part of the house, except for the occasional algae experiment or the smell of chemicals. Sometimes, having a chemist for a flatmate was a bit... Grueling, but he managed. Some nights he even missed it.

In fact, he missed it a lot.

John Watson didn't like to admit how much he actually missed Sherlock. It was something he preferred to keep to himself, just to save himself from feeling excessively sad or lonely or days that his blood would start to pump or his heart rate would accelerate whenever he heard about a police chase, or some sort of crime that had been committed. On those days, he would look back and wonder to himself 'I wonder if Sherlock's on a chase...' Then reality would snap back, and he would realize what he was doing. He missed the chases. He missed the adrenaline rushed. He missed the late nights they would spend together after cases, drinking, watching movies, eating Chinese... He missed the stupid experiments that would ruin tables and countertops, because they were all things that were beautifully and so wonderfully _Sherlock._ Of course, it was sometimes hard being in love with such a mad, brilliant man, but not a day went by that John didn't wish he had said something years ago.

The doctor sighed, and let a deep breath out from his nose. He looked around the living room that he had come to miss so much, and reminded himself why he was there. _I have to find him._

It took John a minute to remember that the detective's room had been absolutely trashed when he barged in there the first time. Although the rest of the house was occasionally trashed, Sherlock, with his impeccable hygiene, always kept his bedroom clean. John swore under his breath as he looked the destroyed room over. Had this happened before or after they were kidnapped? The doctor started picking up papers and anything else on the ground. The man had no intention of touching the experiments, but they were pretty much destroyed anyway. "Come on, John." He grumbled to himself as he got to his feet. "What are you missing? They brought you here for a reason. Why?"

He continued to look around, but with each passing second, the anxiety welled up from the pit of his stomach, and pulsed its' way through his blood stream. What if he was too late to save Sherlock? What if these monsters already killed him?

 _No._ He shook his head, pushing the intrusive thoughts out. He couldn't panic now.

From his pocket, his phone began to ring. He pulled it out with hope that it was the detective, but his hopes were quickly dashed. It was only Lestrade. "What've you got, Greg?"

"John!" In the background, he could hear police sirens and people yelling. He couldn't make out a word, but he knew where they were. "We haven't found a damn thing. The security camera where you two were attacked have been disabled, so there's nothing there. There's simply nothing here, John. I'm sorry." Lestrade sounded exhausted. And anxious. Sometimes John forgot how much Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade cared about Sherlock Holmes. Not many people cared for him after all.

John passed a hand over his face. "Shit. Okay."

"It doesn't make any sense, John. Why would these guys take the time to bring you back to Baker St., but take him somewhere else?" 

The doctor shrugged, although he knew that it wasn't seen. "I have no clue. It doesn't make sense to me either. I know I have to have missed something, there's something about this that I'm not seeing, I just don't know what. Sherlock would be useful right now, but he's..." His voice trailed off, and He looked down at the floor.

"What should we do?" Greg asked, breaking the silence.

"You're asking me?"

The DI paused. "He's your best friend, John."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know. Sorry. Look, I'm at Baker St., whenever you're done over there, call Mycroft."

"Of course."

John hung up the phone without another word. He looked around the room, and saw the detective's closet door cracked open ever so slightly. He reached out gingerly and pulled the knob back, opening it completely. Everything was just as it always was, except for a manila folder lying flat on the ground. With careful hands, he reached out and picked it up, only to find a note written on the folder in purple pen ink, another thing Sherlock Holmes would never use.

_Read it and weep, Johnny-boy._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, guys, now we're getting into the crazy twists and shit. I hope you like it! If you have any questions, please feel free to ask! (Although I probably won't answer if they contain spoilers!)

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, glaring at the young Ukrainian assassin standing before him. He kept his deep baritone voice calm, not wanting to show her that he was actually frightened.

The woman smiled and dropped into a graceful curtsey, the Grach in her hand held out to the side. "Effie Taras." She chirped. He was still smiling at him like a bird of prey, and he tried to look away. He felt prickling unease crawl across his skin, and he suppressed a shudder.

"Where's John?"

Effie let out a thunderous laugh at the hostility in his voice. "Oh, do relax, sweat pea, Johnny's fine."

The detective allowed himself to relax, knowing John was safe. He wanted to ask where he was, but he knew she wouldn't tell him.

Effie Taras approached him carefully, with footsteps that were oddly quiet, despite the fact that she was wearing heavy boots that were undoubtedly steel toed. She reached out towards his face, tracing the cut on his cheek with the icy tips of her finger. She didn't touch the cut, but the contact alone was enough to make him shiver. "Ooh, what a nasty cut." She murdered, her voice strangely gentle, like a mother nurturing a child. "I do hope my men weren't too rough with you, Sherlock, it wasn't my intent. I did ask them to be gentle, but you know how henchmen are." She winked.

Sherlock said nothing.

The Ukrainian turned her back to him. "I really should thank you, Sherlock. You did play into this whole plot quite nicely." She complimented him. "I'm so proud of you for convincing your little paramour to come along with you. I don't know how else I would have pulled it off." She turned around to face him, still smiling proudly and cradling the weapon in her hands. "I hear you're quite good at reading people." She said. "My employer says you can look at a person and tell everything about them," She snapped her fingers loudly so it echoed off of the stone walls. "Like that."

"It's not hard." He replied rather coldly.

"Oh?" She sounded almost amused. "Well go on then, Mr. Holmes. _Deduce me."_

Sherlock only sat there in the chair, gazing up at the Ukrainian assassin. He could see a lot from just looking at her, but he didn't want to give her the satisfaction.

Effie's bottom lip turned down into a mocking pout. "Oh, come on now, do have a little fun, you are going to be here a while after all."

"You're thirty two years old, you're from the Ukraine but you were raised in England. You used to work for Central Intelligence, but now you've gone freelance. You're a very experienced contract killer and spy, and you've just returned from a mission in Calcutta, judging by the fading tan lines." He answered in a single breath, not intending to stop. "You're unmarried, no children, no parents, and no siblings. I know if I were to lift up the left sleeve of your shirt you'd have a tattoo on your forearm. You're ambidextrous, but you primarily use your right hand with weapons, although you use your left when you write, I can see the remains of what looks like purple ink on your left hand, meaning your wrote something in a hurry with purple ink, and you didn't quite wash the ink off of your hand. You wear _Joy Parfum,_ which is around eight hundred quid a bottle, so you're obviously wealthy, but you don't indulge in the wealthy life style other than your choice of fragrance. You have a small penthouse apartment in New York where you have a dog, probably a German Shepard. You're quite intelligent, but you spent your time training instead of attending school, which means you started young. You're sarcastic, rude, and you don't work well with anyone, which is why you're freelance, because no one can stand to be in the same room as you." By the time the detective finished talking, his words were dripping poison.

Effie didn't seem phased, she actually looked amused. "Very impressive, Mr. Holmes." The Ukrainian laughed as she stepped away. "No wonder Johnny-boy loves you so."

Sherlock swallowed back the venom in his throat. "Where is John? You say he's fine, but what do you mean? How is he safe?" He snapped, the pitch of his voice going higher as he started to get nervous.

"Oh, look at you, panicking over your soldier."

"Stop playing with me! Tell me where John is!" He shouted.

Effie threw her head back with playful laughter and shook her head. "Oh, Sherlock, I told you, Johnny is fine!" She looked up at the wall behind him where a clock sat on the stone. "By now... Oh, he's at Baker St. right now. He's probably found my little gift by now."

The detective pursed his lips. "What do you mean, 'little gift'?" He asked her carefully. "It's not a bomb, you wouldn't have said he was safe if it were a bomb. It's not an assassin either, so what the are you talking about?"

"Just a little wedding present." She said.

Her vague answers were starting to get to him, and he gritted his teeth. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

"This isn't about _you,_ Sherlock Holmes!" She roared in a sing-song voice that echoed off of the walls. "This isn't about you, this isn't about your brother, this isn't about Charles fucking Magnussen." She paused, letting her arms fall to her sides as a smile pulled at her lips. "This is about John."

"What do you mean?" He demanded. When she didn't respond, he looked her over carefully, unsure of what to do. The way she stood, the way she carried herself flawlessly across the floor, her sense of humor, everything she did reminded him of... _Oh._

_Oh, shit._

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Do you work for Moriarty?" His voice lowered significantly.

Effie shook her head. "No. Well, technically yes, but not right now. He's dead. I work alone."

"Then, who do you work for, if not Moriarty?" The Ukrainian smirked, as if she were telling him some clever joke. He took her humorous expression in, then pieced everything together. His heart dropped into his stomach, the sick sense of utter betrayal coming over him once again. "You keep saying this is about John, but never specify why, meaning you work for someone close to him, meaning you..." He looked down at his feet, then quickly up to her again. "You work for Mary."

The grin got bigger. "Now you're gettin' it."

Sherlock felt sick. When Mary shot him, the betrayal almost killed him. Then the fear afterwards in the hospital when she threatened him. Although he wasn't afraid for himself, he was afraid for John, but it still hurt. Everything he had done to keep John safe and happy and yet his wife turned out to be an assassin, and she shot him. Sherlock thought that they were past this, he thought it didn't matter anymore, but... Now, here he was. He felt dead all over again. He hung his head, trying to push the terrible, painful memories out of his head. "So, Mary hired you to kill me."

Effie Taras said nothing, but her silence said enough.

He bit at the inside of his mouth. "So then, why not do it?"

"Good fucking question." Suddenly there was a gun in his face, pointed right at the center of his forehead. His heart skipped again as the Ukrainian kept her haunting blue eyes fixed on him. He tried not to panic but his heart was beating _John, John, John, John,_ and he couldn't stop it. What if John was next? What if he never knew? Who would tell him? He would just keep on living with Mary, he would cry and mourn and grieve all over again, for the third time over _him,_ and Mary would be there to comfort him and it would all be a lie, and he would never know that the monster was sitting next to him the whole time. Everything he felt, everything he meant to say all of those years ago, and never did, never could... John would never know. He would never know how much he valued him, cherished him, _loved him,_ John would never know. _John, John, John, John..._

She pulled the trigger.

He flinched.

She giggled.

It was unloaded.

"Because that would be so _boring."_ She whispered humorously as he went lightheaded with relief. Effie stepped away from him and slid the gun into the back of her pants. "Sorry for the heart attack, baby boy, that was mean. But, I wasn't lying, killing you would be so pointless and boring, and not to mention how it would ruin my plans, and that you wouldn't get to hear the rest of this story. Trust me, it's a rollercoaster, but, very, very soon, you'll get the _big_ picture."

The detective hung his head, still trying to even out his erratic breathing. Nothing she was saying made any sense, but for the moment he didn't care. "Where's John?" He choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

"It's a little after ten twenty now, according to your phone clock, so... I'd guess, probably at Baker St. by now, looking for you. He wouldn't even know where to look, the poor dear, if it weren't for the little gift I left him."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What is this little gift that you keep talking about?" He knew it wasn't a bomb or an assassin or anything that could hurt John Watson, judging by what she said, _he wouldn't even know where to look,_ but his heart rate quickened again.

The Ukrainian only smirked. "I left him a little present. His little burden, everything he worries about from day to day, I handed it to him on a silver platter."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "You..."

"Well, I knew he didn't read that silly flash drive she gave him, quite stupid if you ask me, he should have read it first, so I decided to give him the chance to read it."

"But, why? You said you work for Mary, why would you do that?"

Suddenly, Effie stopped and her face became very serious. She bit at her lip before giving him a smile. This wasn't a smirk, not a joking, evil grin, it was soft and honest, and if he wasn't looking, he would have missed the sadness that flashed in her eyes. "Because... I have a debt to pay."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again! This one is really short, and I apologize, but, the next one is really long, so I hope that'll make up for it. I might even put up chapter seven too!

_...killed fourteen people in Prague with absolute precision as they were running away. Shortly afterwards, she was married to a man named Sebastian Moran, a sniper for 'consulting criminal' James Moriarty. Their marriage lasted three years, but they eventually separated, and she continued to work for Moriarty as a private assassin. In April of 2010, she was assigned by Moriarty to shoot John Watson and Sherlock Holmes after an altercation at a community pool. After that, her whereabouts are unknown, but it is said that when is implicated in the deaths of twenty six killings in France, Russia, Africa, Denmark and Greenland. She was later called back by Moriarty to assist in one more job as a sniper. Her target was an affiliate of Sherlock Holmes, and although the killing was called off, she was paid and promptly retired. Her current whereabouts are unknown._

John Watson's fingers were shaking as he flipped through the pages of the file. Everything was there, everything he had been dreading to know since the night he found out his wife was an assassin. It was all there. Every kill she made, every job she held, every mission she worked, every shot, every bullet, every victim... It was all there. He knew her name now; Annalise Gabriella Rinette Akridge. The name tasted like vinegar in his mouth as he repeated it over and over again. He felt sick. With every line he read, his stomach did a terrible flip, and he wanted nothing more than to stop reading, but he could tear his eyes away.

He kept bringing his eyes back to the photograph of his wife, dark haired and wearing sunglasses as she climbed into a black car. He hadn't yet seen the name Mary Morstan come up in the printed file, so he figured the name had came after she disappeared. He didn't know what to say or think, all he wanted to do was scream.

But, he knew he couldn't.

Sherlock was still out there.

John tried to think. He glanced briefly back at the note on the cover of the folder, rereading the chilling note as he tried to used some of his own deduction skills (that he hoped he had picked up from five years watching Sherlock) to decipher it. _Read it and weep, Johnny-boy._ The purple ink was intriguing. The ink and the delicate cursive handwriting told him that it was a woman who wrote it, he only saw pretty handwriting like that when it came to women, and even if it were a man, he wouldn't write in purple. _Read it and weep, Johnny-boy._ Why those words? Why that message? Why would the kidnapper give him this? His best friend had been taken and could be dying, perhaps adding insult to injury was what they were trying to do. Make him sore and crack.

 _If that's what you want,_ He thought. _It worked._

He felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket for the forth time in fifteen minutes. He pulled it out, seeing that he had nine missed calls and five voicemails from Mary. He promptly put it away. He didn't want to speak to her right now.

The doctor got to his feet, clutching the file in his hands tightly as he flipped through it again. But, once he got to the back, he noticed another note written in the same purple ink as before, and upon reading it, he threw the file down and had to leave the room to stop himself from heaving up the contents of his stomach.

_You should have left her the first time she put a gun to his chest._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the request of quite a few people, I decided to update again today. I hope you like it! 
> 
> And of course, as always, if you have any comments or concerns, please let me know!

"What do you mean, 'a debt to pay'?" Sherlock questioned, eyeing the Ukrainian carefully.

Effie Taras sat down on the cold ground, her legs stretched out in front of her, her ankles crossed, and looked down at her hands as she picked at her fingernails. "How about this, pretty boy. I'm going to tell you a story, and you tell me what you think I mean." She briefly looked up at him, and when he leaned back in the chair, straightening up to listen, she smiled. "Think back twenty two years ago. You were sixteen, and you were taking a trip to the Ukraine with your brother I think it was. You got wind of a possible child trafficking ring in the East. You, being you, decided it would be a good idea to check out. You searched, found evidence, but the police wouldn't listen to you. So, you decided to go check it out by yourself. After a few days, you managed to find the group, and you saved the life of a ten year old girl. She was about to be raped and murdered, and you saved her. The next day, you left the Ukraine. No one ever knew what happened. To this day, no one knows. John Watson doesn't know, that handsome Detective Inspector of yours doesn't know, the police forgot after a while, even you may have forgotten what you did." Effie paused and gazed up at Sherlock with eyes that suddenly seemed so utterly familiar that he would have fallen if not for the chair. "But I'll tell you one thing; that little girl never forgot."

Sherlock inhaled slowly. "You're the little girl." He said, recognizing her now.

Effie nodded. "Of course, I changed my name, learned how to fight and became an assassin, but, yeah. I'm the little girl you saved the life of over twenty years ago." Her voice was quiet now, quieter than he had ever heard it before. When he looked at her now, he ignored the gun in her lap. She wasn't going to kill him.

"So... When you say you have a debt to pay..."

"I mean my debt to you." She finished, leaning forward and crossing her legs.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "But... Why? I mean, why tell John about Mary? Why do all of this for me?" He asked, trying not to sound rude for once.

Effie shrugged. "Why save me?" She asked rhetorically. "I meant nothing to you, but yet you saved me and took no credit. I know all about you, Mr. Holmes, what you did for John Watson a few years ago, what you've done for so many people, and it amazes me how you never take any credit. Mary shot you, killed you, yes, you woke up, you survived, but I also know that it took a lot for John to want to go back to her after you tried to convince him. It may be safe, but... Truth of the matter is, she's still after you, John's in danger, and I need to know if you're willing to help me to save him."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Your silence is evidence enough."

The detective looked away. "So, that's your plan."

She shrugged. "Isn't that enough? I like Mary, Sherlock, but she's an animal, darling, and she needs a cage. She caused too many problems for a lot of people, didn't follow orders, and people got burned."

Sherlock let loose a growling sigh. He understood everything now. "You weren't lying when you meant that you worked for Moriarty."

Effie shook her head. "Not really, I work for his favorite sniper's ex-wife, and she's just as bad. But, like I said, Mary and I aren't working for the deadman now, but Mary still thinks she does, considering his most recent pop-up across the world. Strange though, his silence." She said almost too nonchalantly.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "What are you talking about? Are you saying Jim Moriarty is _really_ dead?" He demanded, his head swimming. All he could see in his mind was Jim's face on every screen, the words 'did you miss me' playing over and over and over... He shuddered.

The Ukrainian shrugged casually. "Doesn't seem like him to be silent, does it?" She got up and paced in little circles in front of the chair. "See, even after the nasty divorce with her husband, Mary still worked for Jim for a long time. He hired her to _take care of you_ per se, if you were to somehow to get out of your death, and offered her a hell of a lot of money to do it. I think he was actually testing her, to be completely honest, little Miss. Mary had gotten on his bad side, so he also threatened to expose her complete if she didn't complete the job in a reasonable fashion. Now, Mary knew the moment you were gone that you had faked it. We all knew. So, what better way to get through to you than marry your doctor?"

The words stung. It was all a lie. She married John to get to Sherlock.

"Oh, look at how the heart breaks. Sherlock, if I..."

"Why didn't Mary come after me herself?" He demanded. "She's done it before."

Effie looked confused, and he recognized the look as his 'isn't it obvious' look. "Because... She's pregnant. Come on, mate, even you can see that."

The detective raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. "So... The pregnancy is real?"

"Of course the pregnancy is real. Actually, everything about the way she feels about John is true. She made the mistake of falling in love with him. The only reason she stopped chasing after you was because she loved him, and she thought Jim Moriarty was dead. She was actually just fine being retired and not having to kill you although she realized early on that you and John have probably the most romantically and sexually tense relationship that _any of us_ have seen in the history of forever. I actually think it's rather funny that Mary seems to always fall for gay, blonde soldiers that are in love with dark haired geniuses. It's quite-"

"John isn't gay." Sherlock interrupted. As much as he wished he was wrong, he knew it was true.

Effie gave him a look. "Bisexuality exists, you know. I know for a fact that he waves that damn flag up high, and you can't even argue with me. John is head over heals in love with you, and the _only reason_ he stays with Mary is because she's pregnant. He's a good man, Sherlock, he wants to do right by his wife and be the father he should be, and Hell be damned of he lets himself be happy over his child, but if there was no child, he wouldn't be sticking around. I think that's enough motive to commit a murder, don't you think? You would cost her millions, she still thinks she's under Jim Moriarty's orders, _and_ her husband's in love with you, which has to sting. All of it, her feelings, her pregnancy, it was all real, but when Jim popped up again, she realized it was either kill you, or get exposed and lose everything. She decided she had to get the job done, and so, because she's laid up with a baby, she called me up and asked me to do it." The Ukrainian paused, letting everything she was saying soak in. "I had been on the DL for a while. I didn't want to do this anymore. I started cutting ties, I burnt all of my contacts and aliases in the sink at my house, I was done. When Mary called me and told me she wanted me to kill you and explained why, I made my decision to quit, and finally repay my debt to you. It's a rough way to do it, but it'll be worth it in the end, Sherlock."

His mouth suddenly felt very dry as he tried to make sense of all of the details. "So... Let me get this straight. Moriarty tells Mary to kill me if I actually survived my fall, which I did, in exchange for millions of pounds and his silence about her, but she fell in love with John, and couldn't find is in her to kill me because of him, and now that Jim Moriarty is supposedly alive, she wants me dead for real so that she gets her money, and her life stays hidden and she doesn't end up in prison?"

"Pretty much. It's why she had you kill Magnussen. If she got you to kill him, then she could complete her mission without feeling the guilt of _actually_ killing you. It would have destroyed John, so she took the guilt-free road."

"But, you're a contract killer, you're an assassin, and you're betraying your employer, and your biggest threat!" Sherlock protested loudly. "You can't tell me that you aren't the _tiniest_ bit frightened that Jim Moriarty is still alive and that he'll come after you once he realizes what you've done!"

Effie threw her head back and laughed. "Just trust me when I say that I do _not_ have to worry about that."

The detective narrowed his eyes. "Because you know something." He deduced. "You know something that Mary doesn't. Something about Moriarty."

"Maybe if you're a good boy, I'll tell you what it is."

Sherlock stayed frozen. He didn't know what to think. The blow from Mary's betrayal was what hurt the most, and the fact that he knew John would be devastated once he found out, and this time, it would be worse than it was the first time. Not to mention how he had been tricked into murdering a man for her, so that he would go get himself killed so she could play house with John for a while and feel no remorse. He felt sick. He wanted to scream he just wanted to go home.

But, he couldn't.

Not yet.

He deserved this.

He had to do it for John. He wasn't entirely trusting of Effie Taras just yet, although he had gone through ever fact about her in his head and found no reason not to. Sherlock wasn't used to betrayal, it wasn't his normal department. He didn't want to hurt John like that again, but was there really a choice? He hung his head and tried to keep the hurt from clouding his judgement yet. "You're not going to kill her... Are you?" He asked, his voice sounding pathetically weak.

"No." Effie shot back, sounding almost offended. "I'm not a monster, sweet pea. I'm just going to expose her to you and John for what she really is, she'll go to prison for the rest of her life, and you and John can live happily ever after, and I can sleep better every night because I know my debt is repaid."

The detective hesitated, unsure of what to say. He knew there was something missing from the puzzle, but his mind was in absolute shambles, and he could barely think straight. _Can I actually go through with this?_ He asked himself. Could he really do this again? _For John you can._ The other side of his mind said. That was enough for him. Sherlock swallowed down the remainder of his doubts, and nodded. "What do I have to do?"

Effie nodded at him, then crouched down to rock back on the balls of her feet. He avoided her eyes, but he saw her hands start to pull at the restraints that held his hands to the chair, and immediately looked up. She smiled at him, giving him her best _I need you to trust me_ smile before pulling out his cell phone and the gun.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg are total bros, and I love their relationship, so I wrote a scene just for them! Anyhow, we're getting toward the big ending, and I hope you guys enjoy!

"Greg, I don't know what the hell to do." John half growled, pacing back and forth in the small living room while the DI looked on from the couch. The doctor was angry. He was frustrated. He was completely at a loss as to what to do next.

The man on the sofa sighed heavily. "Just take a step backwards for a minute, John," He tried. "What all do we know?"

The doctor threw the file in his hand on the table in front of his friend, not really caring that all of the paper inside it had gone all over the place. He'd care about messes once they found Sherlock. "For one, I know that my wife is a murderous animal, but I already knew that. Now she's trying to kill him again, only this time, she might actually fucking succeed." John shouted before turning around and punching the wall next to him hard enough to split the skin on two of his knuckles and dent the drywall.

"John!" Greg jumped up and grabbed the man's arm before he could punch the wall again. John turned and glared at his friend, but the hostility quickly left when he saw the serious look in his eyes. Greg pursed his lips, and released his grip on the doctor's arm. "Look, I know you're angry, but that's not going to help. We need to focus and find Sherlock, so, what else do we know?" He said sternly, keeping his tone level, as if not to sound like he was actually saying I'm scared too.

John shook the pain out of his hand, and stepped around Greg to pace again. "Whoever left this file was a woman. She obviously has something against Mary, but I'm not sure if she's trying to help us or not. She left me this to find, but there's been absolutely no sign of her. I want to believe that she's helping us, but after everything I've seen tonight, I can't help but feel that I should be skeptical. I don't want to take any chances with Sherlock, especially if Mary..." His throat became tight, and he had to look away for a minute.

He felt Greg's hand on his arm again, and he turned to find the DI giving him an encouraging smile.

For once, it didn't help.

"I can't do this a third time, Greg. I just can't." He rasped, his head dropping back to the ground. His shoulders shook as he let out a trembling breath. "First the fall, then he was shot... I can't do this again. I was so angry at him when he first came back, but I was so relieved and so happy to see him, it was impossible for me to stay angry at him for very long. Then she shot him, and..." John clinched his fists together at his sides. He could feel the tremor returning, and he tried his best to suppress it. "When I saw him on the floor, covered in blood, I thought that was it, I thought I had lost him again, I couldn't think, I could barely move, I was so scared, and then to find out that it had been _my wife_ who shot him..." He shook his head, blinking away the sudden appearance of tears. "Now she's doing this again, and if she kills him, it'll be my fault, and I can't do it again, Greg, I can't. I love him too much to watch him..." His voice trailed off, and he almost had to reach out for the wall to keep himself from falling down, but he had more self control than that.

Greg didn't seem to know what to say. He hadn't known that it had been Mary who originally shot Sherlock. It was obviously a lot, but at that point, John didn't care. He wasn't planning on staying with Mary after this, baby or not, so Greg and Mycroft could deal the ex-Mrs. Watson once this was over.

John could heard the DI behind him, breathing heavily, like he were trying not to get choked up himself, and occasionally taking a starting breath to speak, but never actually speaking. Finally, after the silence became too much, the Greg. "I have a question that I need to ask you, and you don't have to answer me if you don't want to, just..." He paused, shuffling his feet awkwardly on the floor. "Why did you stay with Mary?" He asked carefully, obviously trying his best to not offend the doctor as best he could.

 _Because I'm an idiot._ He thought, but didn't say out loud. "Because of the baby." He muttered, almost ashamed of his answer. "If it weren't for the fact that she's pregnant, I wouldn't have."

"You can still be a father and not be with her. I mean, it's not the baby's fault."

"I can't be that father, Greg." John replied bitterly. "I can't be _my_ father. I want to be there, I want to make sure my kid knows that I love them to bits and would never do anything to hurt them. I could _not_ be my father. If it were different, I would have left, but I couldn't."

The DI hesitated. "And... What about now?"

John took a deep, unsteady breath. "Now... I _will_ leave. I don't care. And not just because of this, I'm just... I cannot be with Mary anymore." He replied.

"Why not?"

"You bloody _know why."_ He half snapped, turning to face him.

Greg gave him a look. "I want you to say it."

John kept his face hard, but he felt his heart burning and blossoming with love and shame and anger all at once, and for a moment, it was all too much and he couldn't tear his eyes away. There was so much to say, but at the same time, there was nothing to say. He could say how he would have followed Sherlock to the ends of the Earth if he asked him to. He could say how he would have tied a lasso around the moon if Sherlock so desired it. He could say how the first time he heard Sherlock laugh, the first time he _made_ Sherlock laugh, he knew that laugh would be trouble, but he decided it was his favorite sound in the whole world, and all he wanted was to heard it over and over and over again, to put it on repeat like he would his favorite song. He could say that the detective looked like a porcelain God, too beautiful to touch, and too mighty to claim, and every time John was allowed to do so, he briefly felt like he was no longer breathing air. He could say how he would do anything, be anyone for that brilliant, beautiful man, and if he were ever lucky enough to call him his, he would run his hands over his milky white skin so softly, caressing every scar and press a gentle kiss to each, making sure that Sherlock knew he was loved as he was. He could say how he should have listened to his sister after she met Sherlock all of those years ago; 'You better marry that man, Johnny, because you'll never meet another like him.'

He could say all of that.

But he wouldn't.

They were too personal.

They were his and Sherlock's moments to share.

"If I'm really honest with myself, and I rarely am, I was never in love with Mary." He finally uttered in a low, nervous voice. He watched Greg's face change, and decided to go on. "Marrying her was my way of proving to myself that I could move on, but I realized too late that I would never move on from Sherlock, because you never really let go of the first person you ever loved more than the waking world. I couldn't just leave Mary, it wouldn't have been right by her, but now, I wish I had. Had I known, I would have told him years ago. Had I known, I would have made sure he never threw himself off of that damn building. Had I known, I would have never married her. But, I didn't know. I realized too late that I loved him." John looked up at Greg, whose eyes were now glistening with tears. "Everyone else knew it though. Everyone knew it but me. But, I'm not waiting anymore. When we find him, I'm going to tell him everything. I don't care what happens." He finished softly, looking back at the ground.

Greg reached out and placed an almost brotherly hand on John's shoulder, squeezing it ever so slightly in his shaking hand. He lent him a gentle smile, just a small one that told John he had been understood. "We'll celebrate later."

John let out a laugh that sounded breathless and strangled, but it was pure. "I'm holding you to that."

The DI then cleared his throat, assuming the business persona once again. "Okay, so, now we have to figure out more about out mystery woman. What else do we know about her?" He asked.

Grateful for the change of topic, John nodded and picked up the file again, examining the purple, handwritten note. "It's no one that I know. I know that much." He replied, hating that it was so unhelpful.

"Well, what about that dominatrix woman?"

"Irene Adler? Not a chance." He scoffed, almost amused by the idea.

"How do you figure?"

"Because after Sherlock saved her in the Middle East, she went gallivanting off to Paris or somewhere to misbehave. Besides, this isn't her handwriting. I know her handwriting. Also, everything is too informal."

"What do you mean?"

"When we were working her case, she always addressed me as Dr. Watson, and Sherlock was always Mr. Holmes. But, look at the first note, 'Read it and weep, Johnny-boy', come on. My _sister_ called me Johnny-boy. It's too informal for Irene."

Greg sighed, and ran his hand through his hair exasperatedly. "So... If not her, who else could it be?"

John shook his head. "I have absolutely no idea."

"Well, we better think of something soon."

Suddenly, from the table, John's phone begin to buzz and vibrate on the table with an incoming call, and Greg leaned down to pick it up. "Oh, leave it, it's probably Mary." John protested.

But, the DI picked it up anyway, and immediately, his eyes went wide, and his head shot up. "It's him, John."

John's heart skipped a beat and he reached out and snatched the phone away from his friend's hands, only to nearly fall to the ground at the sight of Sherlock's name on the caller ID. He quickly answered and pressed the phone to his ear, his heart already racing. "Sherlock!"

"Not quite." Came a gravelly woman's voice from the other end of the phone. She chuckled lightly at his stunned silence. "Sorry."

Anger flashed through John's body, and he gritted his teeth. "Who is this?" He demanded. "Where's Sherlock, what have you done to him?"

"Sherlock is _fine,_ John. No need to fret."

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded again, louder than before.

The woman seemed unaffected by his hostility. "Effie Taras. I'm a freelance contract killer from the Ukraine, and currently, I'm the only one who can save you and Sherlock, so, I recommend that you pay attention."

John clinched his fist tightly at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Greg already speaking to Mycroft on the phone frantically, but he couldn't hear a word he was saying. He was tempted to snap. He was tempted to say 'fuck off' and demand that he speak to Sherlock, but, he didn't was to risk it. He wouldn't play with Sherlock's life. "I'm listening _intently."_ He spoke through a locked jaw, trying _very hard_ to keep himself calm.

"Good." The Ukrainian replied. "Did you get my little notes?"

"Yes, I did." He replied, looking down at the purple scrawled handwriting on the Manila folder. "Both of them."

There was a pause, then the woman cleared her throat. "I _am_ sorry to have to have had to break the news to you in such a way, Dr. Watson, but... It was necessary." She said, her voice sounding strangely sincere and apologetic.

John ran a hand over his tired face. "Just... Tell me that Sherlock's safe." He ordered kindly. He didn't want to think of Mary at that moment.

"Sherlock is perfectly safe, I assure you. I'll even let you talk to him in a minute, but I need to explain something to you first."

"Explain away."

The woman cleared her throat. "Do you know where the old Cassidy Corporation warehouse is?" She asked.

John nodded. "Of course."

"Good. We're in the basement. Hard to miss. I want you to come to the building, but, you must, for the sake of Sherlock's life, you _must_ come alone. Police should be no less than twenty minutes behind you, I do suggest you send an ambulance along. It is so very important that you do not come with officers. Mary is already on her way, and if she suspects trouble, she'll kill him, so, you must come alone. Understood?" She spoke quickly and urgently, just like one in the midst of a war would speak.

The doctor hesitated. "Why an ambulance? Is Sherlock-"

"I assure you, Dr. Watson, he's fine. I'm saying have one there for precautionary measures. Now, are we clear?"

He bit at the inside of his mouth. He didn't actually trust her, but he would have to wait for Sherlock to tell him otherwise. "What should I do when I get there?" He asked carefully.

There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of Sherlock's voice in the background, then a soft reply from the Ukrainian, which was too low for John to understand. "Sorry, I was rearranging Sherlock. When you get here, you'll have to stay hidden until you feel the time is right. You'll know what I mean. Oh, and bring your gun."

"I always bring my gun."

"Dr. Watson." She warned.

The doctor sighed. He didn't like this idea. "Fine. Now, can I please talk to Sherlock."

"Of course. I keep my promises, Dr. Watson."

There was another pause, then came the doctor's favorite sound in the entire world. "John?"

"Sherlock!" John gasped in relief, turning around to signal Greg that it was actually him. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. What about you?" The detective demanded in the same frantic tone.

John nodded quickly, although he knew Sherlock couldn't see him. "I'm fine, I'm here with Greg, we've been looking for you everywhere."

"Who?"

"Lestrade, you git."

Sherlock made a noise of confirmation, then was silent. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a near whisper, and he sounded defeated. "John... It's Mary. Mary's the one who..."

The doctor shook his head. "I know, Sherlock. I know." He answered quietly.

"I'm so sorry, John, I should have-"

"Sherlock, don't you dare apologize for this. This is _not_ your fault, alright, this is my fault. I screwed up."

The detective sighed. "I should have known, though. I should have figured this out sooner. I just... I didn't want to believe it."

It broke John's heart listening to Sherlock sound so defeated and betrayed. He silently curse Mary. Just the thought of her sent his blood boiling. "Sherlock... I'm coming to get you right now, okay? I'll be there soon. I love you, okay? Just... Just hold on." He ordered, not caring what had just slipped out.

There was a pause. "Say that again. Please." Sherlock gasped, his voice wavering.

John couldn't help but laugh at his star-struck sounding voice. "I love you, Sherlock. I'm coming to get you."

The hesitation was longer this time, but finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. "I love you too, John." He replied so quietly, it was hard to hear.

The doctor didn't even attempt to hide the smile that broke across his face. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Hurry." Then the line went dead.

John slid the phone back into his pocket, and looked back up at a very wide eyed, and very interested Greg Lestrade. "That was our mystery woman. I don't know who she is, but I'm not taking any chances with Sherlock's life, so, wait twenty minutes after I leave, then send police and an ambulance over to the basement of the old Cassidy Corporation warehouse." He ordered, slipping into his captain's voice.

A smile spread across Greg's face. "You told him you loved him." He commented, ignoring the statement.

He rolled his eyes. "Greg, did you-"

"Yes, I heard what you said. Wait twenty minutes, then follow. Just give me a minute to bask in the freeing moment of holy-shit-one-of-them-finally-fucking-said-it. It's not every day I get to see this." The DI half-joked, although it was easy to see that he was beaming.

The doctor snorted, and looked away, although he himself was actually quite excited. He didn't know what else he could say, but he was relieved. Say thing it was hard, but he was so glad he did. "Yeah, well... After a while, you get sick of bullshitting." He hesitated, then grabbed his coat off of the chair, and pulled it over his arms. "I've got to go before Mary gets there. Remember, twenty minutes, then follow me. And do _not_ come in until I say so. If this Effie woman is telling the truth, this is dangerous, and your presence will get Sherlock killed if Mary knows you're there."

Greg pursed his lips into a tight line. "I don't like this, John." He said seriously.

"I don't like it anymore than you do, Greg, but at this rate, I will do whatever it takes to keep him alive."

"But what if it's a trap?"

John shook his head. "Sherlock would have warned me. We have code words and phrases, and he would have warned me if it was a trap. He trusts her enough to go along with her plans." John was entirely skeptical on his own, but he trusted Sherlock's judgment. He trusted it more than his own. For the moment, at least.

Greg kept his gaze hard, but finally nodded curtly and stepped back. "I'll wait for you."

"Thank you, Greg." Then, finally, the doctor stomped down the stairs of 221B and crawled into a cab, his mind on Sherlock the entire time. At one point, he ran his hand down over the waistband of his jeans, checking to make sure the gun was still there. He smiled to himself when he felt the familiar outline before taking out his phone and typed out a long, detailed message to Mycroft. Just in case.

When the cab stopped outside, he was suddenly met with unease, but he course feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins like an Arctic river, and the Sholto-voice in the back of his head kept telling him to run, but for once, he listened to the Sherlock-voice in his head that told him to come forward. For once, he decided to disobey his commanding officer. Quietly, very, very quietly, he opened the door of the warehouse, and stepped inside, following the sounds of Mary's raised voice.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock's hand froze on the End Call button, and he absolutely did not remember actually pressing it, but once the call was ended, she stood frozen, looking at John's name on the call log. _John said I love you. John said it first._ He never expected that. Sherlock always expected that he would be the one to say it first, stutter it out at a really inappropriate time, probably at a crime scene or somewhere else where he would embarrass John, but... John had said it first. In front of Lestrade too. _Oh, he'll never let us live this down._

"Hey." Effie barked from a few feet away.

When the detective turned to face her, he noticed she was holding out a MP-443 Grach handgun, identical to her own. He eyed it suspiciously. "Why are you giving this to me?" He asked.

The Ukrainian looked up toward the stairs, then back to him. "If my calculations are correct, you're going to need this." She said, pushing the weapon into his hands. "Hopefully you won't have to use it, hopefully I'm wrong, but you might, and I don't want you to be unarmed." She took another Grach out of the backpack on the ground. She cocked the weapon, then approached Sherlock and put a hand on his arm, curling her fingers around his bicep. "Okay, look, I texted Mary and said you broke out of your restraints, and stole my gun, so, I need you to go out and hide somewhere close, but nowhere she'll see you."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "When should I come out?" He asked, not exactly satisfied knowing he wasn't the one making the rules for once. He didn't like following orders.

"You'll know when. Just follow my lead."

The detective's mind immediately jumped to John, and he felt his heart lurch. He didn't like this plan, not at all. "Are you sure that John will be okay?" He didn't care what happened to him, as long as John was safe.

Effie pursed her lips, and Sherlock could see her biting the inside of her mouth, obviously trying to keep an icy comment from slipping out. For the first time, Sherlock realized how physically intimidating she actually was. The woman herself was taller than he originally thought, above average height for a woman, as she was only a few inches shorter than Sherlock himself. The intensity of her blue eyes against the dark of her dyed, ink black hair was like something out of a film. She was obviously the type of woman that would interest Jim Moriarty, which was probably why he didn't have to look at her twice before making her one of his goons. The Ukrainian woman blinked twice, then gave him a strained crooked smile. "Have I never given you reason not to trust me?" She demanded jokingly.

"Well, I mean, you did kidnap me."

"Besides that."

"You put a gun in my face and pretended to shoot me."

"You're not making this better."

Sherlock gave her a look. "Neither are-"

Suddenly, from above them, the sound of the door opening echoed through the basement, and the two shared a look. Effie bit at her lip again, the softness in her eyes disappearing completely, only to be replaced with a soldier's cold front, and she nodded at him. "She's here. Get back." She hissed.

Sherlock did as he was told, and ran quickly to the pipe fixtures by the wall, and hid behind them. It wasn't a very good hiding place, but the shadows hid him well, and it was only temporary. He looked between the fixtures and watched with a perfect view as Effie kept her gun drawn, and her back near the wall, ready to fire when needed. Her face was a perfect mask of well contained fury, and Sherlock was almost impressed.

He heard the basement door open, and immediately, there was a torrent of angry Russian from the very, _very_ familiar voice of Mary Morstan, followed by an equally snippy response from Effie Taras. Sherlock's dodgy Russian didn't do much help, but he could, in fact tell that Mary was furious about Effie losing track of him, and Effie was doing her best to argue back with her and explain how it happened in the first place. Mary came down the steps, and Sherlock was surprised to see that she was actually dressed in street clothes, her swollen, pregnant belly quite visible under the too large grey jumper. She was carrying a gun, the very gun she used to shoot Sherlock with, it was cradled almost lovingly in her right hand. Sherlock felt sick again just seeing her, especially like this.

Somewhere in the conversation, Mary screamed to Effie that she couldn't do this because she was already five days past her due date, she had to be home in case she went into labour, and that John would give up looking soon and head home. "Well, you should have killed him months ago, for fuck's sake!" Effie shot back furiously, in English this time.

Mary, who didn't seem to notice the change, glared murderously at the Ukrainian. "Not your call, Taras." She hissed, her grip on the gun tightening.

Taking that as his cue, Sherlock stepped out from the shadows that hid him, fixing his eyes on Mary. "She's right, you know." He said.

The two woman looked over to him in surprise, then both held up their weapons, although Effie was giving him a look that read _be careful._

Sherlock held up his weapon, the barrel of the gun pointing directly at Mary. "You really should have killed me when you had the chance."

Mary's eyes flickered to the gun in his hand, and snickered. She seemed unafraid of him, but, she never had before. "You won't shoot me, Sherlock. You wouldn't do that to John." She murmured in a sugary sweet voice that made him want to retch.

"Are you so sure, Mary?" He snipped.

"Not if you ever want John to speak to you again. Kill him, Effie." She ordered.

Effie, who was still holding up her gun, smirked, her almost draconian blue eyes glinting mischievously. She was getting ready. She was enjoying this.

Mary's eyes flickered to the Ukrainian. "Effie. I said kill him." She ordered again, her voice clipped.

The Ukrainian stepped toward Sherlock, the sound of her big, heavy combat boots scraping across the concrete almost deafening in the silent room. She was standing brisk and tall, and face was calm, cold, emotionless, just as the woman beside her appeared to be. Her weapon was clutched tightly in her hand, and for a brief moment, Sherlock thought for sure that he had been tricked. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck into his collar as he kept his eyes locked with hers, not even daring to look at the pleased smile on Mary's face. She was only a few feet from him now, he could see the deep brown flecks that were scattered all throughout the piercing blue of her irises. The Ukrainian woman stopped just inches from him, and her lip curled upward into a grin. Then, she turned, and pointed her gun straight for Mary's chest. "Sorry, darling." She murmured.

Mary's eyes widened, and she stepped back, nearly stumbling over her own feet in shock. Her eyes flickered between the Ukrainian and her intended target, horrified by the sudden change. The gun wavered as her hand began to shake. "Effie!" She gasped, painfully. "What are you... How could you..." She stuttered, unable to get out a coherent sentence. "I... I _trusted_ you!"

"You made that mistake, Mary, not me." She replied softly. "Put the gun on the floor, and step away."

"But I _trusted_ you!" Mary shot back, her voice becoming higher and higher with hysteria. She was nearly on the verge of tears.

Effie locked her jaw, and took a careful step forward so that she was half covering Sherlock's body with her own. "Mary," She warned gently. "I'm giving you a chance here, so I need you to put the gun down on the floor, then step away."

 _"No!"_ Mary screamed, her voice echoing off of the walls. Her eyes became steel, and they seemed to glint in the dim orange lighting. She cocked the weapon, and pointed it directly at Effie's chest. "You won't shoot me, I'm pregnant, but I can shoot you. I'll shoot you both right here and I'll just walk out of here. They'll never find your bodies. Never. I have an alibi. I'll just kill you both and get away with it."

"No, Mrs. Watson, you won't." Came a strong voice from behind her.

Everyone froze.

Sherlock's heart began to pound. _John._

Effie smiled. "Nice of you to join the party, Dr. Watson." She called out smoothly, like she were greeting guests at a dinner party.

Mary suddenly became very pale, and she turned around very slowly, taking in the form of her husband standing by the stairs, very much the soldier again, with his back straight, his legs shoulder width apart, and his gun raised at a perfect angle, while the other hand hung loosely at his side, fingers slightly curled, ready to be raised to steady the gun if necessary. His face was expressionless, but there was no mistaking the black fury and disgust behind his eyes. John Watson's eyes never left his wife's face.

 _"John."_ She whispered breathlessly.

He didn't move. He never even made a sound.

Sherlock's heart pounded and pounded.

Mary whipped back around to face Effie, her eyes now brimming red with tears. "Effie, I don't understand. We were partners! We were friends! How could you-"

"I had a debt to pay. I decided to repay it." She deadpanned.

The assassin seemed appalled. "You betrayed me for some _debt_ to _Sherlock Holmes?"_ She demanded, the hysteria returning to her voice.

Effie nodded slowly. "Just like you betrayed your husband, and the man who called you his friend. Twice."

"I was under orders." Mary bit back icily. "I was under orders and you know what he would have done if I hadn't killed Sherlock."

"You're following a _dead man's orders,_ Mary." The Ukrainian cried out, her tone breaking and suddenly becoming soft. "You know that as well as I do, Jim Moriarty is dead and gone, and he isn't coming back. You had a chance to end it with Magnussen, but instead of taking it, you trick Sherlock into killing him, letting him take the fall. And for _what?_ What in God's fucking name would that get you? No guilt in killing Sherlock for a second time? A few million dollars? No, no, no, wait, let me guess, you're in _love,_ so you're following a dead man's orders, just so you can keep John to yourself. There's nothing left of you, Mary. Nothing." By the time the Ukrainian woman stopped, her voice was thick with tears. "I'm sorry, Mary, but I will not help you this time, I refuse. I'm repaying my debt, and saving three lives."

Mary made a noise deep in her throat that sounded like a strangled sob, and she took a step forward, pointing her gun directly at Effie this time. "You can't clear your record, Effie." She snarled, her voice dripping poison. "You're as bad as me, you always will be."

The Ukrainian shook her head. "No, you're right, I won't, but at least I repaid my debt. To myself, and Mr. Sebastian Moran."

 _Sebastian Moran?_ Sherlock thought. _Why does that name sound familiar?_

Mary's face fell, and she stumbled back at the mention of his name. She looked almost pained. She turned to John, who hadn't moved a single inch, her face stained with tears. "John, you won't let her shoot me. You know that." She whispered to him almost desperately.

John blinked, then locked eyes with Sherlock. The detective's heart flew way up to his throat. Even after five years, John Watson still surprised him. "No, he won't." Sherlock stated cooly. "But, he'll make sure that you'll never walk the streets again."

"How?"

"Mycroft Holmes owed me a favor." John answered, his voice flat. "I informed him of everything on the way here, and he plans on putting you away for a long time. Several accounts of murder, attempted murder, kidnapping, conspiracy to murder, the lost goes on and on. He's putting you away where you belong. Just like he should have done when you shot his brother. You're not my wife anymore, Mary." The soldier paused, and swallowed hard. "And, I'll be taking the baby. You'll never see her."

Effie glanced up at the clock. "The police are outside, Mary. You've got nowhere to go."

The woman known as Mary Morstan faltered, her gun lowering to her side, and just as another trail of tears trickled down her face, she placed her hand on her belly. "No, John. No, you won't be taking her. I won't let you." She whispered.

Sherlock's heart skipped.

Everything happened so quickly then, although it seemed to move in slow motion as it played out across Sherlock's line of vision. Suddenly, Mary's gun was raised, and she fired one shot directly into Effie Taras' stomach, then rounded the gun on John just as he began to run forward. Sherlock panicked, his mind going completely blank for the first time, and he screamed, just as three more gunshots rang out through the cold warehouse basement.

_"John!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ: 
> 
> Okay, so this chapter is set at around the same time that John and Sherlock first met, just so we're clear. Also, I have a MorMor fluff weakness, so I hope you guys enjoy this. ^^

**~Five Years Earlier~**

Just as the sun began to rise, the dark haired man awoke, and silently stretched out the glorious ache in his body. He turned to look over his left shoulder at the man beside him who had his back to him, and he found himself blushing over the sight of the angry red scratch marks that covered his gold tinted, muscular back. He pushed away the urge to reach out and run his fingers gently over the marks, just to feel what he had done. Instead, he let out a heavy, happy sigh, and carefully, as to not wake his partner, pushed the duvet back, and crawled out of the large bed.

He made his way around the bed, and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He scowled slightly at the sight of how unruly his hair looked, but the moment he thought back to the events of the night, and suddenly, he didn't mind so much. He brushed his teeth and pulled his pair of pajama bottoms back on, just so he could feel a little more decent, not that his partner cared.

He went into the kitchen and started to make coffee, then made his way back to the bedroom where his partner was still asleep, and slipped out onto the balcony where his phone, an empty bottle of Macallan from 1928, and their drinking glasses still sat on the table. He couldn't help but smile. _Oh, what a night it had been._

The man sat down in the same chair he had been in the night before and picked up his phone, the blood in his face draining as he read through the messages he had missed.

_You have two choices; you may complete the task I have assigned you, or you will deal with the hell I have planned out. Have I made myself clear?_

_Do not test me. You know who I am, it doesn't work._

_I am growing weary of your silence._

_I find myself disappointed in you. Everyone said you were the best. I had hoped they were right. Am I not?_

_I choose to accept your silence as you considering your current predicament, as well as my offer. If I do not receive an answer by Monday at six, you will be cut out of our deal, and you will not enjoy what I will be forced to do. So, choose wisely. You know what I am capable of._

_Also, send the Colonial my regards._

The man's heart began to pound, and he placed the phone back on the table as he sank into the chair on the balcony. He felt tears pricking at his eyes, and he hunched over in the seat, fisting his hands in his hair. _What am I going to do?_ He thought desperately.

"Jim?"

The man looked up at the sound of the gravely voice coming from the bedroom, the voice he was so in love with, even when it was heavy and rough from sleep. "Balcony." He called back.

There was a soft groan in response, then the creaking of the bed as the other got up, and made his way slowly toward the French doors. The soldier, a tall, American, monster of a man squinted against the light, and gave his partner a sleepy smile as he ran his hands through his already tousled, dirty blonde hair. "You know, waking up to an empty bed is not something I tend to look forward to after a night of drinking and frankly amazing sex." He stated, his eyes glinting playfully.

Jim let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, Sebastian, behave yourself." He chided, although he was secretly thrilled.

The soldier rolled his eyes. "There's no one here but us, boss." Sebastian leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his partner's lips, the rough stubble on his chin scratching Jim's face, but he didn't mind.

"I made coffee." Jim said quietly when he pulled away.

"Oh, thank god. I was starting to go nuts with all of this goddamned tea." The soldier grumbled, slipping back into the room.

"Count yourself lucky, Tiger, I only buy coffee for you."

There was a rumble of laughter from the kitchen in response, which made Jim smile. He would never admit to anyone else that he liked the occasional domesticity of his relationship with Sebastian Moran, but he did. His favorite sniper, and the only man-or woman for that matter-who had been able to cut through the angry, evil persona that James Moriarty had adapted in his career, and for the first time in his life, Jim let somebody in.

Sebastian Moran was everything to him.

He was the sun rising in the morning, the smoke of his high, the cherry on top of the ice cream, the brightest star in his sky, and all of the silly, ordinary clichés that he could think of. He gave him butterflies and fireworks and made him want to sing and dance in the rain during a terrible storm. He had a voice that reminded the Irish man of rustic cities, and warm fires during the winter while you watch the snow come down in tiny flakes. He made him feel like warm cookies fresh out of the oven. He had been brought up to believe that he could never feel a thing, but there were days that Sebastian would say something, or even just look at him with gentle, loving affection, and for a brief moment, Jim Moriarty would forget his own name. He loved him so much that it hurt, and the pain of it was beautiful.

 _I'll follow you anywhere, Jim, and I don't care who I have to shoot down to get home to you. It makes no difference to me, you moron._ He had whispered to him after a rather grueling mission and an even bigger fight that, for the first time since he was a child, left Jim in tears at the utter fear that Seb would leave him. He had threatened him, called him awful things, threatened to replace him, told him he was disposable and that he would turn him into shoes, screaming until he was hoarse and red in the face. Finally, the persona crumbled, and he broke down into tears, begging the soldier not to leave, all while he continued to sob uncontrollably in the quiet room, losing every bit of strength he had. He remembered how Sebastian's rage filled eyes had softened almost instantly, and he gathered the smaller man in his arms, pressing their foreheads together, and speaking so softly, it was nearly impossible to hear him. The words still made his heart skip.

But, that was why he was afraid now.

When Seb returned, he had put on jeans, leaving his muscular chest bare (probably for Jim's benefit), and was carrying a cup of coffee. He plopped down into the opposite chair, taking a large gulp of his morning coffee before placing it down on the table, and studying his partner intently. He noticed the phone on the table, and his eyes hardened briefly. "It was _him_ again, wasn't it?" He asked.

Jim nodded.

"What does he want now?"

"You _know_ what he wants."

Sebastian let out a heavy sigh. "Jim, we need to talk."

"Don't say that." The criminal snipped, focussing on a spot on the ground. He hated those words. He hated them even more when Seb used them. He hated that he hated the words, he shouldn't be afraid of four stupid words, but those words were far from innocent, and they only ever came out of Sebastian's mouth when something bad was about to happen.

The soldier leaned forward, and, in one swift movement, pulled the chair Jim was sitting in forward, angling it so that they were facing one another. Jim still didn't look up. "I meant we need to talk about _this._ You're keeping me in the dark again, and I love you, but, if this is going to work out, you can't do that. You have to tell me what's going on." His voice was gentle, not at all what Jim expected.

"There's nothing new to say, Seb." The consulting criminal replied. "He wants me to help him take down Sherlock Holmes, and I need to do it, because he knows that I have something in the world to lose now, and he wouldn't mind taking it away from me."

Sebastian hesitated, then pulled back, and ran a hand through his hair. No one knew about their secret relationship, as they both agreed to keep him private to protect one another from people like him in the first place. "How did he find out?"

"It doesn't matter how he found out, Sebastian, he knows, and if I don't do this, God knows what he'll do to you."

"I'd like to see him try." The soldier scoffed.

Jim's blood began to boil, and he clinched his hands into fists. "This isn't funny, dammit. He's smart, okay, smarter than me, smarter than Sherlock Holmes, and he's dangerous."

"Okay, okay." Seb backed off, and bit at his lip. "Look, Jim, before this even started, you told me that you were going to leave Sherlock Holmes alone, because he was no threat. Whatever Magnussen wants from him is-"

"Irrelevant." Jim interrupted. "Look, Seb, so far, all he wants me to do is look into him. Maybe throw out a few puzzles for him to keep him busy, just to see how he works. That's all. I might need you, your lovely ex-wife, and a few other snipers to help me scare him a bit, but it'll go no further than that."

Sebastian gave him a cold, hard state that seemed to last for hours. It was easy to tell that he was upset, and that only made Jim feel worse. "Do you swear that that's as far as you'll let it go?"

Jim nodded. "Cross my heart, hope to die."

The soldier studied him for a few minutes more, than shook his head, and got to his feet. "You're lucky I'm crazy about you, James Moriarty."

He smiled. "I must be."

"Come here." Seb stuck his hand out to his partner, and pulled him gently to his feet to wrap his arms around his waist and crush the smaller man to his chest.

Jim nuzzled his face into Sebastian's neck, his body relaxing significantly. "You need a shower." He teased, breathing in the scent of sex and cigarettes that had lingered on his skin.

Seb laughed, and pressed a soft kiss to his partner's forehead. "Only if you join me, kitten."

"You know I hate when you call me that." Jim said, wrinkling his nose at the nickname.

"No, you don't."

"I will turn you into a throw rug."

The soldier rolled his eyes, then pulled his partner back through the bedroom.


	11. Chapter 11

**~Two Years Later~**

Jim stayed in the car for longer than usual. The car was off, his keys were out of the ignition, but he couldn't move. He was angry. He was tired. He was in too deep, and he couldn't get out.

He was going to have to die in order to save Sebastian.

All because one of his snipers, went rogue when she found out about his relationship with Sebastian, and caused too many problems with Magnussen. Sebastian's ex-wife was a damn good sniper, but she had proven herself a problem, one that Jim should have taken care of long ago.

Sebastian knew of course, his boyfriend had been in the room, unbeknownst to him at the time, and had... For lack of a better phrase, completely lost his shit. He went storming out of Charles Augustus Magnussen's office, turning over tables and putting holes in the walls, and had been missing for nearly three days. Jim was worried sick, and terrified now more than after that he was going to lose his soldier.

Fuck Annalise Akridge. Fuck her and her stupid jealousy issues. This was all her fault.

Jim looked up at his penthouse with a sigh. He got out of the car, paying no mind to the rain that fell down in buckets, soaking his shoes and trousers, and was surprised to find that the door was already unlocked. _Sebastian's home._ He thought, making his heart skip a beat. He pushed the door open and ran up the steps toward their room, his heart pounding. He pushed the door to their bedroom open, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Sebastian was tearing clothes out of the drawers and the closet, throwing them all in his duffle bag from Afghanistan, leaving things everywhere. He had his back to the door, but it was easy to see that his hands and arms were shaking terribly from the rage coursing through his body. "They've called me back." He said dryly.

Jim's mouth went dry. "Who?"

"The army. They want me back. I told them yes. I leave tonight."

He swallowed hard. "But... You were discharged."

"They're desperate. They want me back."

The criminal's knees nearly gave out. _No. No, no, no, no, he couldn't!_ "You're lying."

Sebastian didn't stop. "Nope."

"Yes, you are!" Jim shouted, his voice raising hysterically. "You're just mad at me, and you're trying to scare me!"

"Oh, really?" He demanded casually, pushing past Jim and stepping into the bathroom to get his toothbrush. He didn't look him in the eye, not once, he just continued to pile things in his bag, ignoring Jim completely.

Jim's heart was racing, and his breath was coming in short, painful gasps. For once, he couldn't think, he couldn't rely on his deduction skills, he couldn't read Sebastian... For the moment, he just panicked. "Please tell me you're lying." He pleaded weakly. "Please. I don't care if you're mad at me, just... Please, tell me you're lying. Please."

"Why does it matter to you?" The soldier snapped.

His words cut Jim like a knife. Tears began to trickle down the man's cheeks, and for the moment, he couldn't control them. "Because, I..." He swallowed hard, unable to say it. "You're being ridiculous, Sebastian, please, please, just tell me you're lying. Please don't leave me." For once, he wasn't using the 'sad Jim' look to manipulate him, he was genuinely scared.

Sebastian, obviously hearing the tears in his voice, let out a deep, shaky breath. He turned around, and pulled the tearful man to his chest, enveloping him in his arms. "Alright, alright, shhh... It's okay, you caught me. I'm not going anywhere." He hushed his partner, tightening his arms around him.

Slowly, Jim's heart rate went down, and he began to relax. _He's staying, he's staying, he's staying._ "I'm sorry." He whispered. He never apologized to anyone. He stretched him on his toes to press a kiss to Sebastian's lips, but was immediately pushed away, much to his dismay.

"I _can't,_ Jim. I can't. I can't do this anymore." The soldier rasped, tears beginning to brim in his eyes. "I told you that you shouldn't have gotten involved with Sherlock Holmes and Magnussen, and now you're caught in it, and-"

"I did it for you!" Jim thundered, his voice cracking with anger and the tears that he had been trying to keep down. "I did it to make sure he didn't hurt you, you son of a bitch, it was for you!"

"I can take care of myself, Jim, I was a fucking marksman!"

"I wasn't going to take that risk!"

Sebastian suddenly became really quiet, and he froze where he was, his eyes locked onto his partner's face.

Jim took a shaky breath, and angrily wiped the tears from his cheeks. "Magnussen is a leech, and he knows just how to get what he wants and destroy whoever makes him angry. He figured out the only way to destroy me was you, and I couldn't take that risk. Not with you." His voice trailed off, and he looked down to the floor. "You make me so _human,_ even though I'm anything but. You are the only reason I have a heart, and I don't know why I love it so much, but you make me feel... Everything. I hate having a weakness, but if I was going to have one in the first place, I'm happy it's you. Which is why I can't let him get to you. I have to... I have to do what I can to keep you safe."

"Because of _my_ ex-wife." The soldier shot back, less angry than before. Less angry at him, at least.

Jim shook his head. "It doesn't matter. If this is what has to happen to make sure you're alive, than so be it."

"Don't you dare. Don't say shit like that to me." Sebastian growled.

"Would you rather me lie?" He asked, gazing up at his partner with tired eyes. His body suddenly felt heavy, and he was so tired, he could barely think. "It wouldn't change my decision, but at least you could leave thinking that I never loved you in the first place, which would hurt less."

Sebastian took a step back and sat down on the bed, hanging his head. His shoulders were shaking ever so slightly, and all Jim wanted to do was reach out and hold him, tell him he was staying... He suddenly looked up, and there were tears in his eyes as well. "Come away with me. Fuck Magnussen, fuck Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, all of that shit. We'll pack up and we'll just go. Anywhere, I don't care where, but we'll go somewhere else, and we won't have to do this anymore." He seemed to be almost pleading with the consulting criminal. He sounded so broken, so terrified for the first time since he and Jim had met. It was terrifying.

Jim smiled, but it was strained. "It's not that simple, Seb. Not after everything I've done. Magnussen would never let us be."

"But what it it was? What if we could take care of Annalise and Magnussen all in one go, and once it was all said and done, we could leave all of this behind and just be together? If it were that easy, would you do it?" He demanded.

"You know I would." Jim answered. He meant it. "I would give up everything I have, everything I've built, I would live some horribly domestic life, just to be with you, but there's nothing that I can do. There's no way out of this."

Suddenly, a small smirk etched its' way across his face, and he got to his feet, pulling his mobile phone out of his pocket. He quickly dialed a number, and stepped away.

Jim gave him a look. "Who are you calling?"

"A way out."


	12. Chapter 12

Twenty-seven and a half minutes later, Jim and Sebastian were out in the living room of their penthouse, the mess in the bedroom forgotten, when the doorbell rang. The soldier got up quickly, and opened the door, a soft, almost cheeky smile spread across his face. "You coming my way, doll?" He asked playfully.

"Is there any other way, daddio?" Came the reply. It was a woman's voice, much to Jim's surprise.

Seb smirked. "I hoped so."

The woman laughed, and stepped closer to wrap her arms around the soldier's neck. "It's nice to see you, Bassy."

 _Bassy?_ Jim thought. He felt a pang of jealously hit his heart. He was the only one who was allowed to give Sebastian pet names.

"I thought I told you to never call me that." The soldier scolded her, though it was hopelessly playful, and maybe a little flirtatious. It was like a hand twisted in Jim's stomach.

"Oh, please, Bassy, do let me have a little fun."

She stepped into the penthouse once Seb gestured for her to come in, and Jim found himself even more surprised than before. This woman, whoever she was, was nothing like he expected. Her attire alone, a black-on-black skirt and tights combo as well as a pair of high healed black boots that went to her ankles was was strange enough, as it was. Her top was a half-sleeved black white white polka dotted button down shirt that was tucked into the skirt, and there were a pair of sunglasses covering her eyes, despite the rainy weather. Her hair was the color of ink and all swept and spiked and twisted up in a cute, fashionable way, in fact, the only color on her at all was the bright, bold red of her lipstick. She was actually quite beautiful, which was even harder for Jim to take in. She was nothing he expected. She was obviously Ukrainian, that was easy for him to see and hear in her voice, but other than that, his mind was still too scrambled to make sense of it.

"Nice place, Bassy." She complimented, taking her sunglasses off of her head and placing them on top of her head. She turned to Jim, who had stood up when she walked in, and smiled. "You must be the man of the hour, James Moriarty."

Jim swallowed hard. He looked to Sebastian for words. "It's Jim, actually. Who are you?" He demanded, snapping probably more than he originally intended, but, he certainly didn't like the way she and Sebastian looked at each other. Obviously there was a mutual attraction, and he didn't like it.

The Ukrainian seemed unaffected by the rudeness, but Sebastian gave him a glare. "Jim, this is Dana Carlisle, professionally known as Effie Taras. She's the best damn sniper I know, besides myself, and the best agent. 'Course she's not an agent anymore, but she's still damn good." He said, admiring the pretty Ukrainian.

The jealous pang returned to Jim's heart. "Yes, but why is she _here."_

"Jim." Sebastian hissed.

Dana Carlisle grinned. "Bassy forgot to mention my best quality. I solve problems, and I solve them well. He called and said you have a big one. I'm here to help."

For once, Jim Moriarty was speechless. He didn't know what to say to the strange woman in his living room, nor what he should say to his boyfriend, who was still staring down at the woman with admiration, which felt like someone was striking him through the heart. He kept reminding himself that Sebastian loved him, that she was here to help them, and tried to ignore the jealousy. He got jealous too easily. "I'm uh... Thank you for coming."

"My pleasure, Mr. Moriarty. Tell you what," She said, turning to Sebastian. "Bassy, you go make me a cup of coffee, and once that's done, we'll talk."

The soldier shrugged. "Sure thing. Lots of cream, lots of sugar, right, dollface?" He asked, turning toward the kitchen.

"Oh, you know me so well."

Jim's heart twisted again. _Just relax, Jim. She's just a friend. She's just a friend._

Once they were alone, Dana turned to Jim and smiled. "So, how long have you and Bassy been together?" She asked casually, sitting down in the chair opposition the sofa, where Jim had been sitting with Sebastian.

"Just over three years." Jim replied.

"Oh, lovely. I'm guessing you and him got together after he and Annalise got divorced."

He nodded, although it wasn't entirely truthful. He and Sebastian had been together for months before the divorce, but Seb had been planning to leave her for a long time. But, there was no reason for Dana Carlisle to know that. It wasn't her business.

"Does she know?"

He nodded again. "She does now."

Dana wrinkled her nose. "Ooh. That's got to hurt."

"Obviously I'm _real_ broken up about it."

The Ukrainian laughed.

Sebastian returned with her coffee after that (thankfully it wasn't it one of Jim's mugs), and held it down for her. She gave him a smile. "Bassy, you're a saint." She took a sip as the soldier walked around and sat down on the couch next to Jim. He took took the smaller man's hand in his own, squeezing it lightly. Dana said nothing, and put the mug down. "Okay, now. Debrief me. Tell me everything, leave no detail out, no matter how tiny."

For the next few minutes, Jim and Sebastian spent time going over every detail they could think of, although Seb was the one to do most of the talking for once. The woman called Dana hmm'd and nodded throughout the whole thing while she bit the end of her sunglasses. Jim felt more comfortable with her now, as his head was cleared enough to actually read her carefully. She and Sebastian's relationship, while horribly and irrevocably flirtatious, was nothing more than platonic, much to Jim's relief. The two overindulged in playful banter. Dana was an interesting character, but as the conversation went on, it was obvious to see that she was a great asset to have, and he could tell why Sebastian had called her in.

"So, let me get this straight," The Ukrainian said, just as the two criminals stopped talking. "You want me help you fake your death and get creepy-guy Magnussen off your back so that you two can run away and be Romeo and Juliet?"

Jim bristled, but Sebastian snickered. "Sounds dumb when you say it like that, doll, but, in retrospect, yes."

Dana looked between the two criminals, and shrugged. "Just checking."

"So, is it possible?" Jim demanded.

"Please." She scoffed, sending a flare of annoyance through his body. The only one who was allowed to talk to him like that without getting their throat cut was Sebastian. "I'm the master of faking deaths, I've done it eight times already. It's easy."

Jim gritted his teeth. "I would hope you have some sort of plan, because if not, you're useless to me, and if you're lying, I'll have you shot." He practically sang, bringing back his psychopath persona.

Dana looked almost impressed. "Relax, sweet pea."

"I will skin you alive and turn you into shoes if you _ever_ call me that again." He all but snarled, biting back his rage. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sebastian glaring at him, but this infuriating woman was getting on his nerves. 

She held her hands up in defense. "Alright, alright, relax. Look, it's easy, all we have to do is convince Annalise and Magnussen that you're dead. On the day of the big Bart's stunt, we'll have three snipers on Sherlock's friends. Bassy, you take Johnny-boy, Annalise will take the attractive Detective Inspector, since he'll be the furthest way from the scene, we don't want her near it, and I'll take the old woman."

Jim cocked his head. "You want to help?"

She nodded. "Of course, I'll be the one to have to fix it if anything goes askew." She replied. "Now, I'll have a team ready to clear your body out of there after Sherlock jumps, and we'll get you out of the country. Bassy, you'll have to stay for a few days, to keep an eye on things, but you'll have to pretend like Jim's dead for real. Grieve. Get drunk. Whatever. It doesn't matter, just look really distraught. Then, we'll ship you out to meet him wherever you guys end up, and you'll be free to travel and be merry. You said it yourself, Magnussen thinks that you'll do whatever to get the better of Sherlock Holmes, so once you're dead, he'll turn the other way."

"But, that only takes care of Magnussen. What about Akridge?" Sebastian protested.

Dana shrugged. "Well, knowing Sherlock Holmes, he'll either die or he'll fake his death too."

"I'm partial to the latter." Jim agreed, looking to Sebastian for consideration.

The Ukrainian nodded. "As am I. The man's brilliant, he'll find a way. So, Jim, you have to tell her that if she wants to stay alive and out of prison, she has to make sure he _stays_ dead. Tell her if he comes back, she's to kill him in any way she sees fit, and if she fails, she'll be exposed. Also, tell her that you'll have people watching her. But, when Sherlock Holmes _does_ come back, I'll make sure she doesn't touch him. I'll expose her myself. I think it's high time my debt was repaid."

The Irish man hesitated. "How do you think she'll do it?" He asked.

Dana raised and lowered one shoulder. "Not a fucking clue. I'm a problem solver, not a genius. Not like you, anyway."

Jim wasn't sure whether to be angry or a bit satisfied. She at least recognized his genius.

"But, I'll tell you this, I know that I'll have time to plan. I'll watch her for a while, we have quite the history, she and I, so there's no doubt in my mind that she'll call me to help her with the actual killing." The Ukrainian reassured them, giving them a smile.

Sebastian took a deep breath. "So... This is going to work out?" He asked, looking between Dana and his partner.

Dana Carlisle nodded, and reached out to squeeze his arm. "Just leave it all to me, boys. Soon enough, you'll be be living life in domestic bliss." She got to her feet and placed her sunglasses back over eyes, gave both of them a playful smirk. "You'll be hearing from me." And then, she walked out the front door, and was gone, leaving the two men alone.

Once she was gone, Sebastian turned around and crushed the smaller man to his chest, holding him there with his arms. "I told you I would get us a way out." He murmured into his partner's ear, his hot breath sending a shiver down the criminal's spine.

Jim let out a weak laugh. "I don't like her. She was flirting with you. But, I think she'll be a lovely addition to the underword."

Sebastian suddenly pulled away, and locked his eyes with Jim's, his expression remaining hard. "Is this really what you want? Do you really want to leave with me?"

 _"Yes."_ He breathed. "Yes, yes, I don't care anymore, you silly little thing. I don't _care._ Sherlock Holmes can have my network, he can destroy me, he can have the whole bloody world, I don't care anymore. I want to be with you, I don't care what it takes." For once in his life, Jim Moriarty, a natural compulsive liar, was telling the truth. He loved his soldier.

It only took a minute before his partner finally gave in to the pleading, tear-filled obsidian eyes that he loved so much, and leaned down to capture his lips, holding him close to his body, like he were afraid to let go. Once they did, he buried his face in Jim's hair while the criminal nuzzled his nose into his neck. "You know... I'm kinda thinking Italy."

Jim laughed. "You could open a restaurant."

"I so could."

"You should." 

"I think I will." 

"Can't wait."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, we're back to the original story now! ^^ But, don't worry, we're not done yet!
> 
> As always, if something is confusing, please let me know! I wrote this at three in the morning, sooooo, it could very easily be jumbled. Just let me know! 
> 
> Love you all! 
> 
> Stevie

Everything went still.

Not a single breath was heard.

Blood began to appear on Mary's back where the bullets entered her body, and the gun fell from her hand just as she went limp right into John's arms. The soldier was gone, and now he was a doctor again, checking her pulse, keeping her upright, talking to her... But, he was talking to her like a patient.

The gun in Effie's hand clattered to the ground as the woman fell back into the pavement, gasping for air. Sherlock ran to her, and dropped to his knees beside her, although he was unsure what to do. "Effie! Effie, stay awake, don't you dare fall asleep! Can you hear me, Effie?" He demanded, his hands scrambling all over her body, trying to get her vest off as blood began to pool all over the pavement. _God, there was so much blood._

The Ukrainian gasped and choked for air as she grabbed hopelessly at the wound. It was under the vest, it had been a perfect enough shot to break through the soft, side material and enter her body. "Fucking snipers, man." She hissed, just as Sherlock tried to hold her up.

"Effie, stay with me, okay?" He demanded again, shifting his position to get a better angle. Sherlock's mind was going a hundred miles an hour as he tried to keep Effie Taras awake, but also go through everything that had just happened.

Effie shot her.

She shot Mary.

She took a bullet to the stomach, then shot Mary in the back before she could shoot John.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, pulling him out of his daze.

The detective turned to see John coming right at him. He wanted to ask about Mary, but he didn't dare. "John, are you-"

"I'm fine." The doctor snapped, dropping to his knees beside him and the Ukrainian woman. "Effie, let me see your wound."

"No!" She choked out, pushing herself out of Sherlock's arms, and attempting to crawl away. She collapsed only a few inches from the detective, who promptly tried help her. "No! No, Sherlock... Ma... Mary first." She gasped, grabbing the detective's arm and pushing it away.

John reached for her. "Effie, stop it, let me look at your wound. That's an _order."_

"Mary first..." She rasped again, locking her eyes with Sherlock's.

The detective was at a loss for words. "Mary first, why Mary first, Effie?"

Effie gasped for air, and leaned her head back on the pavement. "Three lives, Sherlock... Three lives." Her voice was weak, but her gaze was almost boring holes into his own.

"Three lives, what do you-" Suddenly, it clicked. Sherlock's jaw dropped, his heart skipping, and he nodded. _I'm repaying my debt, and saving three lives._ He turned to John, sure that his eyes were burning with panicked intensity. "John, stay with her." He jumped to his feet and began to run, ignoring John's calls after him as he ran up the steps and threw the door open, signaling the team of medics and Lestrade, telling them to hurry. They followed right away, running down to the basement and dropping right beside Mary. "Get her to the hospital as fast as you can!" He ordered the medics. "She's nine months pregnant and five days past her due date. You'll have to do an emergency C-Section at the hospital, but hurry!" He commanded, pleased with himself when they did nothing to question him.

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

He ignored him. "Lestrade, you stay with Effie until the other ambulance arrives." He told the DI, who was still looking around in shock at what he was seeing.

Greg stared up at him in horror. "What about..."

"Lestrade, please, just stay with Effie."

"We're ready to go, sir." The medic on the ground with Mary told Sherlock.

He held up a hand and ran to John, who was paying attention to Effie still. "John, we've got to go, come on." He said, pulling the man to his feet.

The soldier turned to him with a bewildered expression. "What about Effie?" He demanded, glancing down at the barely conscious woman who was now in Greg Lestrade's care. "She needs medical-"

"John, she's giving them a chance! We have to go with Mary!" He shot back, pulling John away.

"What chance?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned on his heal, locking his eyes with John's. He hoped then, then more than any other time in their lives, that John would listen to him. It was more important then than any other time. "Three lives, John. She's saving three lives." Then, before waiting for an answer, he took the doctor's hand and pulled him along, then helped him into the ambulance. John didn't look at Mary at all.

Sherlock silently hoped they won't too late.

He wasn't sure how Effie knew what was happening, but for once, he didn't care not knowing.

She was saving three lives.

That was good enough for him.

** ________________  **

Mary Watson went into emergency surgery when they arrived at the hospital. Her wounds were severe, and she had lost enough blood already. They had two choices, either patch up the bullet wounds and save Mary, or save the baby via C-Section and lose Mary. In the end, they attempted both, patching up the bullet wounds as best they could until they could do further surgery, while in the meantime, they performed the Caesarean section to save the baby.

The caesarean worked.

The surgery did not.

Mary died of her injuries on the operation table at 11:47 P.M. despite the doctors' best attempts to revive her.

Downstairs, however, a child with a full head of blonde hair, naked and screaming with lungs powerful enough to shake the entire floor, lie flat on her back while doctors looked on. She didn't cry for long, she succumbed to sleep shortly after being cleaned and wrapped up in a blanket, but if there was one thing they could say about her, she was as healthy as any other baby, despite her troubling and tragic entrance to the world.

Finally, after nearly two hours of waiting, a doctor, a beautiful African woman with a baby of her own on the way (as Sherlock deduced) came out into the waiting room where the two men were sitting, and told them the news. John hardly flinched at the mention of his wife's death, not even when the doctor apologized to him, but it was clear to see the hurt in his eyes.

"And... And the baby?" He choked out.

"Your daughter is just fine, Dr. Watson. You'll be able to see her in a little while, the doctors are just doing a few minor check ups to make sure."

John's whole body seemed to sag forward in the chair, but he quickly sucked in a sharp breath to compose him. He ran a hand over his face. "Thank you."

The female doctor walked away after that, leaving them alone.

Sherlock watched John closely, unsure of what to say. Mary was dead. Mary was dead, but the baby was fine. Effie had saved three lives. But, John... John seemed emotionless. He seemed so conflicted, he was digging his fingernails into his palms so hard it was a wonder he didn't draw blood... He was broken, but alive, and he looked like he was happy, but ashamed... Unsure of anything to say, Sherlock reached out and carefully laced his fingers with John's, squeezing them lightly.

John looked up at him, and gave him a sad, understanding smile. He didn't say anything, but he squeezed back. Suddenly, he looked away as tears filled his eyes, and then he was on his feet, storming away toward the balcony, leaving Sherlock's hand feeling cold.

_What should I do?_

_For once in your life, act like a human fucking being, dammit. Go after him. Make him feel better._

The detective got to his feet, and followed the army doctor out to the balcony, stopping just short of the doors. He could see John leaning up against the railing, looking up at the stars. He didn't look angry, he didn't look happy, he wasn't being a soldier or a doctor, he was just _being._ With every deep breath, his emotions seemed to float away in the crisp night air, and for a moment, Sherlock considered turning back.

But, he didn't.

He pushed the door opened, and stepped up beside the doctor, keeping a safe distance between them as to not bother him. John didn't move. "I... I figured that you would want to be alone, but I didn't think it was wise." The detective whispered.

John made a noise of confirmation.

Sherlock bit at his lip. "Are you alright?" He asked. _Stupid question._

The doctor shook his head. "No. I'm actually pretty fucking far from okay." He spoke softly, with no trace of anger, not like he had shown before. "I just feel like this is all one big nightmare and I wake up. Of course, in my nightmares, you're usually gone too." He paused, and looked down at the city below. "I'm not sure if this is better or not."

Neither did Sherlock.

"John... I'm so... I'm so sorry." The detective murmured brokenly. "I should have known, I should have done something, then we wouldn't be here. I should have-"

"Sherlock, as much as I hate to say it, whether or not Mary died wouldn't have made a difference. She was dead to me the moment I found out it was her."

The detective bit down hard at the inside of his mouth. "You deserve so much better than this. Than _me._ You deserve so much better than all of the pain I have caused you."

"No one could prevented this, Sherlock. We were both tricked." John suddenly looked very angry, and he clinched his fists tightly against the railing. "Mary, Annalise, whoever she was, she was always like that, and nothing would have changed that, not you, not me... I knew it was always going to hurt when she got what she got what she deserved, but..." He swallowed hard. "I didn't think that you'd be there with me when it happened. I thought you'd be done with me when I went back to her after what she did to you. I didn't think you'd be at my side anymore."

Sherlock looked down at his feet. "I don't want to anywhere else." He whispered.

The corner of John's mouth twitched up into a smile, but, as quickly as it came, it vanished, and he looked down at the city below. "That's honestly why I called you today. Christ, to think that was only a few hours ago, fucking _hell."_ He paused, raking a hand through his hair. "I missed you, Sherlock. I really missed you. I hadn't seen you in so long, I had been so caught up in trying to forgive Mary for the baby's sake that I forgot all about the person I loved the most." John's hand was suddenly on top of Sherlock's, lightly squeezing his fingers, although his own were shaking. Sherlock couldn't breathe. "I wasn't lying when I said I loved you earlier. I meant it. I always have, if I'm honest with myself, I've always loved you with everything I had, but there was always something in the way. I was too scared to say it before because I didn't know you felt the same, but then you..." His voice trailed off, but Sherlock knew.

"Then I fell."

He swallowed hard. "Yeah."

Sherlock squeezed at his hand. "I'm so sorry."

To his surprise, John let out a laugh. It wasn't bitter, it wasn't strained, it was a pure, so very John laugh, that it melted a barrier in Sherlock's heart. The doctor looked over at him with a light, questioning look. "Sherlock, if you apologize to me one more time, I'll have to hurt you." He said, smiling up at him.

"I'd rather you didn't." _I can't handle another punch to the face like that._ He added in his head, although he knew he would allow John to punch him if he wanted to.

"Sherlock, I forgave you ages ago. It took everything I had to not go running after you after a few days, just to see you, just to tell you everything I wanted to say before, but couldn't. The only reason I couldn't was because of Mary. Now, of course, I realize that was a mistake, but... I love you. I do. I love you, I love you, I'll say it a million times, I'll learn it in every language just so that I can tell you again and again, and again. I don't care anymore. I've waited so long, _too_ long, and I'm tired of having things go unspoken between us. I love you, and if that's the last thing I ever say on this planet, so be it."

Sherlock was speechless.

The entirety of the English had left him.

Of course, he had spent countless days envisioning the exact way he would tell John Watson that he loved him, but right then, just as the opportunity came, he had nothing to say.

He knew what he _wanted_ to say, he had decided to keep John Watson for the rest of his life from the moment he realized that John had killed a man for Sherlock, saving the detective's life, just hours after meeting him for the first time. He wanted to tell John how he changed him, made him better, made him feel human for once, instead of feeling like the high-functioning sociopath he dubbed himself to be. He wanted to say that he was John's, heart and soul, mind and body, all of him was John's, and he didn't care who knew. He never wanted to love anybody else.

"This is... New to me, John." He whispered finally. "I buried my feelings until they were screaming in my head, which sounds absurd, but it's true. My mind is a mess, but you keep me right. You always kept me right. I don't know a damn thing about love, but I'll damn well learn for you. I... I don't want to be with anyone else. Ever."

It was an awful confession, but a confession all the same.

And John Watson, bless his soul, accepted it. "I'll tell you this, love isn't something you can just research, Sherlock, you just have to feel it. I know you can, you obviously do. It's confusing and overwhelming, but... It can be something beautiful. It can be hard, believe me, we've definitely gone through enough, and it isn't going to be easy in the beginning. It never is, for anyone. Then, one day, you're laying in bed on a lazy Sunday morning with the love of your life, and you realize everything is perfect for once. It's... Beautiful."

Once again, Sherlock was at a loss for words. He wasn't sure that he could feel all of those things, but _God,_ did he want to.

John gazed up at him, and smiled. "You don't have to say anything right now. We've got forever to figure it out." Then, he looked away, just as a rosy pink color flooded his cheeks. "I uh... I have a question for you, and it's a bit embarrassing, but I'm curious. When did you first realize that you..." The doctor blushed harder, unable to finish his sentence.

"That I fancied you?" He asked, felting the heat rush to his face as well. He looked ahead toward the stars as he remembered. "I don't remember actually."

Which was a lie.

Sherlock Holmes _did,_ in fact, remember, although he thought it was silly, so he chose to not say it.

It was on a Tuesday.

He remembered it was a Tuesday because he always hated Tuesdays, and this happened to be the most interesting Tuesday of his life.

It started out with nothing but a question. Simple, innocent, completely harmless. John had asked him if they had any Earl Grey left. It was a silly question, of course they did, they always had it. He told him was pushed toward the back of the cabinet, and John, who was unusually cheerful for the morning, although it might have been due to the simply stunning whether outside. Later that day, they would go out for dinner at a restaurant and sit outside while the stars came out above them, but for the moment, they were sitting in the kitchen, and John wanted tea.

After finding the tea, he placed the kettle on the stove, and began to bustle around the kitchen until the kettle was screaming. John started humming as he poured his tea into his favorite mug, which wasn't uncommon, and normally, he didn't make a note of it, but this time, for no reason at all, Sherlock looked up, and never looked away.

He wasn't sure if it was the way the light was hitting John's face, or the way John's eyes were lit up as if it were Christmas, or just the way John was swaying back and forth, humming some tune he practically danced around the kitchen, but in that moment, Sherlock Holmes had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

As he came back to reality, he smiled to himself. "I'm not sure."

The doctor hmm'd a reply, obviously not believing him. "Unlike you to forget things."

"Yes, well, I-"

Suddenly, John's lips were against his own, rough and hungry and passionate, and utterly breathtaking. Everything John Watson seemed to have held back before was placed into that kiss, and the soft, but audible whimper of shock and bliss was nothing Sherlock could ever bring himself to be embarrassed about. He barely had time to catalog the taste and feeling of John's lips on his own before he registered that doctor's hands were cupping the sides of his face, cradling his head and Sherlock's own hands were gripping helplessly at his coat.

But, then, just as quickly as the kiss itself happened, John's lips were gone, leaving Sherlock panting and winded, just short of begging for more. He knew his face was beet red, and he was satisfied to see that John's was as well. It was a wonderful sight.

"Sorry." John finally said, not sounding very sorry at all. "I don't know why I did that."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "I-I didn't mind." He stuttered.

John laughed, the smile reaching his eyes and lighting up his features completely. "So... That was good, then?"

The detective nodded. "More than good."

He didn't seem to have a response for that, except for the small, but noticeable smile on his face. "I uh... I don't want to go back to my flat after this." He said simply.

Sherlock's heart suddenly dropped. _Of course he won't. Too many memories, and now a baby... He needs his time._ He reassured himself before nodding slowly. "I can have Mycroft find you a place to for the night, or for a while, if you'd like. I know you're going to want some time with the baby." Sherlock didn't exactly want John to go anywhere but Baker St., but he knew he couldn't ask that of him. It wasn't fair.

There was a pause. John was silent for quite a few minutes, then he sighed, and dropped his head. "Actually... I uh... I was wondering if... Well, maybe I could come back to Baker St."

Sherlock froze. His heart did a little jump, and he looked back over at his beloved army doctor, his face for sure turning red. "You..." He tried. "You want to come home... With me?" He was almost amazed at how strong his voice sounded, but he was more impressed with how easily the word 'home' slipped out of his mouth.

"If you want." John replied with a shrug. "I don't really want to be anywhere else, especially not right now. Of course, if you don't mind having a baby around the flat."

"No!" He protested quickly. "No, I'd... I'd love you to come home. Both of you." Sherlock could have cried in that moment, just at the very idea of John finally, finally coming home after all of that time.

John, who seemed to have the same idea, smiled brightly, his big, cobalt colored eyes gleaming with tears. He dropped his gaze, not wanting to look at Sherlock for too long, but it was easy to see that he was smiling. "It won't be easy in the beginning, I know that, but... I know what I want, and I know that we'll be okay. I don't have faith in many things, but I have faith in you." He murmured, curling his fingers around Sherlock's own, and squeezing them tightly within his own.

The detective felt winded, but in a way, it was good. This was new to him, without a doubt, and he knew that John was right, it _wouldn't_ always be easy, especially right away, but as long as they were together for it, nothing could hurt them. Together, they were iron, they were steel, they were the strongest adhesive for a world falling apart at the seams... They were invincible.

A smile, a playful, blissful smile played at Sherlock's lips, and he dropped his head. "John?" He started to say. "Um... If you do move back to Baker St. with me... And if I'm good, of course, will you... Will you kiss me like that again?" He couldn't believe how pathetically nervous he sounded, like he was a dumb teenager with a crush.

John burst into a fit of giggles. "Like that, did you?"

"Perhaps a bit more than I should have, given the current circumstances." He replied, worrying his lip.

But, the doctor didn't stop. "Sherlock, when I move back to Baker St., I will kiss you like that every single fucking day." He promised.

"I'm counting on that."

Neither man had anything more to say, so they stood on the balcony, their fingers intertwined, staring up at the stars as the day came to a close. Sherlock was at that moment, as happy as it was possible to be. It was amazing how they fell so nicely into the pattern, like they had always been together.

For the moment, the nightmare was over.

But, only for a moment.


	14. Chapter 14

"I thought I'd find you two out here." Came a very familiar voice from behind them.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust, but turned away anyway, and gave his brother a snide smile. "Nice of you to finally turn up, brother dear." He snipped. He was a bit irritated with his brother for ruining the near-perfect moment he had been having with John, but, the army doctor squeezed his hand, and he relaxed.

Mycroft Holmes seemed to notice the change, but for once, kept his (abnormally large) nose out of it. "I could say the same about you. How was being kidnapped?"

"Fine. I bet you were enjoying it too. How's the diet?"

"Ladies, please." John sighed, sounding exasperated.

Once both the elder Holmes had straightened up, Sherlock rolled his eyes returned his attention to John. "Sorry." He apologized. It tasted like vinegar in his mouth-apologizing for being rude to Mycroft was something he _never_ did-but he would be nice to him for once, just for John's sake.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and twisted the umbrella in his fingers uncomfortably. "I believe I should apologize for your loss, Dr. Watson, despite the circumstances." He muttered, obviously not _too_ apologetic, but it was more than Sherlock expected to say the least.

John took a deep breath, shoulders shaking slightly at the mention of his ex-wife. "I... Thank you, Mycroft. I'm still wrapping my head around it." He offered a weak smile. "But, thank you."

Mycroft nodded, then dropped his gaze.

"Is Effie still in surgery?" Sherlock asked as he realized how long it had been.

His brother looked up, giving him a confused look. "Pardon?"

"Effie Taras." John stated. "She was the mystery woman who helped us. The one who shot Mary."

Sherlock nodded. "She was shot in the stomach, and there had only been one ambulance when we were there, they said they were sending another one." He explained, growing slightly more alarmed at the confused look on his brother's face.

The elder Holmes furrowed his eyebrows. "Sherlock, no one else was retrieved from that sight."

The detective's heart jumped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"There was only one ambulance that came from the Cassidy building."

John seemed as equally confused. "What are you talking about? How is that possible?" He asked.

 _What if they left her?_ Sherlock thought. Angrily, he pushed past Mycroft, John right on his heels as he went searching for someone who would know. He passed several rooms on the way, but not one of them contained the Ukrainian woman. He and John made their way down to the desk at the front of the wing, putting on a charming smile for help. "Hi, sorry to bother you," He said to the woman being the desk. "But, I was wondering if Effie Taras is out of surgery yet."

The woman tapped something in at her computer, then pursed her lips. "I'm sorry, sir, there's no one here by that name." She replied.

Sherlock's heart pounded, and he gripped the desk tighter as he gritted his teeth. "She's about five foot nine, very Ukrainian, short black hair, she would have gone straight to surgery for a gunshot wound to the stomach, she came from the Cassidy building. She's _got_ to be here." He shot off every relevant detail he could think of about the woman. Effie had to be there.

"I'm sorry, sir, there was only one ambulance which came from that area. There's no one that fits the description."

Without thanking her, Sherlock pushed away from the desk and turned to face a very bewildered John Watson. "I'm going back. I have to find Effie." He said through clinched teeth.

John nodded. "Would you like me to come with you?" He asked.

"No, stay here with the baby, but keep an eye out for her." The detective shot back over his shoulder as he rand own the steps and out the front entrance to hail a cab.

** _________________ **

Police were still on the scene. Most of them had left already, leaving only a few officers that Sherlock recognized, Sergeant Donovan, of course, and, must to Sherlock's dismay, the forensics team. There was also no ambulance on the scene, but that didn't mean much, it had been over two hours.

Sherlock pushed his way through the small crowds of police officers, and made his way back down toward the basement, his eyes immediately dropping to the pool of blood where Mary had been. He swallowed hard, shaking the sight of it out of his mind. He looked ahead, toward the second, larger pool of blood that belonged to Effie Taras, and almost felt unnerved by the sight of it. "Where are you, you stupid girl?" He whispered to himself.

 _Lestrade._ He thought. _Find Lestrade, he was with her._

The detective ran back up the basement steps, and began searching around for the DI. It didn't take him long, he found him having a cigarette just outside the scene on the other side of the building. The front of his shirt was absolutely covered in blood, and his hands were shaking slightly as he took a long drag from the cigarette. "Lestrade?"

Greg looked over at him and have him a look. "Sherlock? What are you still doing here?" He asked.

"I came back. Effie Taras never showed up at the hospital."

The DI looked confused. "What? She was picked up by ambulance over an hour ago." He replied.

"Are you _sure?"_ He demanded.

"Yes, of course, I was with her when they took her away. I offered to go with her, but she told me she was fine, and to not worry about it."

Sherlock bit at the inside of his mouth. He didn't want to think that she was dead already, but he had to consider it. "How was she?"

Greg shrugged. "She actually seemed... Okay. I mean, she was talking to me, she was a bit out of it, but she seemed okay for the most part. Then the medics showed up and they took her away. But, she was alright, she was bleeding, but she seemed... Fine." He looked down at the blood on his shirt, and shook his head. "I asked her why she took the bullet, and she said 'you wouldn't have liked me if one of your boys got shot'. Even after being shot in the stomach, she kept up her sense of humor." The DI took another drag off of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the crisp night air.

Sherlock was speechless.

Effie was gone.

She was alive, or at least, he was sure she was.

But, she was _gone._

Without saying another word, he turned away and went right back to the road, hailing a cab, and pulling out his phone to inform John, his heart pounding the whole time.

_Where are you, you stupid girl?_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm sorry I didn't update yesterday, I was hella busy and never got the chance, but, I have two chapters ready for you guys, so I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> I love you all!

Nothing in the world prepared Sherlock for the sight he saw when he found John Watson at the hospital again.

It wasn't a bad sight, he wasn't sitting by a dead body or flirting with cute nurses (of course, not that Sherlock expected him to be doing so), or anything else that would have been normal in their line of work. 

No, it wasn't anything like that. 

Sherlock would have been prepared for that. 

What he _wasn't_ prepared for, was the sight of John Watson, the soldier, the doctor, the best friend that he was so in love with, sitting in a chair by himself in a room, cradling a small, blanketed bundle in his arms. His eyes were wide, and there was no mistaking the anxiety that was absolutely radiating off of him, but... He was smiling. He was a proud father smiling down at his daughter. Nervous, yes, he was obviously terrified, but there was no mistaking the joy. Despite the recent events.

John looked up when the detective walked in, and the smile grew. "Hi." He whispered, as to not wake the child. "It's alright, Sherlock. Come say hello." 

He almost didn't.

He didn't feel like he had the right. 

But, somehow, he felt himself being carried forward, and eventually, Sherlock took his place in a chair across from John, his eyes locked on the small bundle in his arms. He felt the urge to reach out and touch her, to see her for real, but he wouldn't do that. He looked down at the small baby's face, marveling at how much she actually looked like John, even as an infant. "She looks like you." He said, although he felt stupid, because he was certain that John already knew that.

"Thank god for that." The doctor only half joked. 

Sherlock would have been lying if he said he never had any doubts that the baby was John's. But, of course, he would never say that out loud. Not now. Instead, he kept his mouth shut, and stared down at the baby, wondering what to do. 

John let out a soft, strained laugh, breaking the silence. "Christ, Sherlock, this... This is for real, isn't it? I'm-" He swallowed hard, choking on the words in his throat. "I'm a dad. I'm really a dad." His voice was trembling, but he seemed so happy, it was almost too much to watch.

"You'll be a great father, John." Sherlock replied. He meant it too, he had absolutely no doubts in his mind that John Watson wouldn't be an excellent father. He knew he would. 

"You know, we planned for so long, we had everything planned out, and we were just waiting for her... But, now that she's here, I have no idea what to do." The soldier looked back up at his partner, his eyes already red and puffy from the tears that were brimming in his eyes. He was silently asking Sherlock for help, but, for once, Sherlock didn't have a clue. He was just as inexperienced, if not more so. 

The detective tried to reassure him with a smile, no matter how weak it was. "Not many first time parents do." He uttered, reaching out and squeezing John's arm comfortingly. "She's... She's beautiful, John. She really is." 

John laughed, not once taking his eyes off of the baby. "God, she is. I just hope I know what I'm doing. Now that Mary's..." 

He didn't need to finish his sentence. Sherlock already knew. 

"What are you naming her?" He asked, changing the subject. 

The soldier shook his head. "I have no clue, right now. I mean, we were going to name her Elizabeth, it was Mary's mother's name, but now, God, there's no way to know who her parents were. I can't do that to her, I don't want any trace of Mary or Annalise, or whoever the hell she was, in my daughter's life." He sighed, and bit at the inside of his mouth. "But, now I'm at a loss for names."

"Just don't name her something awful, like Mycroft." 

John threw his head back with laughter. "God, no. I could never torture her with a name like that." 

Sherlock smiled too. It was good to see John laugh, especially after the day they had. 

"You know..." John started to say, his voice getting quieter. "I... I kind of like her name. Effie. I don't know why, it's strong, it's unique, it's pretty... It's nothing I've ever heard before." He sucked in a sharp breath, and looked up at Sherlock, his eyes suddenly pained. "God, is that awful of me? Wanting to name my daughter after the woman who... I mean, I know, she was an assassin, but, if it weren't for her, I would have lost you, and had the mastermind as my only source of comfort. She may not have been a terrific person, but she saved you. I still have you, because of her. I... _Christ,_ I'm awful, aren't I?" 

The detective shook his head. "No." He answered harshly, tightening his grip on his partner's arm. "No, you're not awful. She could have been called anything, and it wouldn't change what she did for you or for anybody, and wherever she is right now, I'm sure that she would be honored. I stand by your reasoning, and... To be honest, I quite like the name as well. I think it's perfect. Effie Watson." 

"Holmes." 

Sherlock did a double take, and stared his partner down with his clear as day, bewildered, deer-in-the-headlights expression. Holmes? _His_ last name? No, John couldn't have _possibly_ meant that. There was no way. He must have been joking. "Wh-what?" He stuttered.

John offered a smile. "Effie Watson-Holmes. I... I know it may be stepping out of bounds, but, I know for sure that I'm not going anywhere else, I'm not going to love anyone else other than you for the rest of my eyes, and I'm certainly _not_ calling her Morstan. I know you've never done this before, and neither have I, but... I want to. I want you, I want her, I want her to know that she has the both of us." He suddenly paled, and averted his eyes. "Of course, it's up to you." 

It took Sherlock less than a second to decide. 

He smiled, and reached out to touch John's face. "It's still better than Mycroft." He whispered in mock disappointment.

The two of them erupted into a fit of giggles, and they leaned close to one another, capturing each other up in another kiss. It was a magical thing, really, the feeling. From near strangers, to best friends again, to lovers, and then to parents in a little less than twenty four hours... It was pretty magical. Neither one of them had any idea what they were doing, but, they were certain that it wouldn't matter. They would figure it out. They always did.

Eventually, John placed the small Effie Watson-Holmes into Sherlock's arms, and the detective cradled the small bundle in his arms, admiring her features, her plump, babyish features, her so very, _very_ John-like features... He never really thought of babies as _beautiful._ They were loud, they were messy, they were completely helpless, and all around seemed pretty annoying. But, looking down at the newborn in his arms, knowing that she was going to bear his last name, it somehow made it easier for him to see himself doing this. When she stirred, he chuckled, shaking his head. "You're going to be brilliant." He said, smiling. "You are going to be _so_ brilliant." 

"Of course, she is." John said, having overheard his words. "Look at us." 

Sherlock beamed. 

The doctor shook his head. "You know, she might have to sleep in your room until she's old enough to be upstairs on her own in a nursery." 

"What about you? Where are you going to sleep?" Sherlock asked, furrowing his eyebrows. 

John shrugged. "Sofa always works. The other option is that I keep her upstairs for now with me. I just figured that it would be easier in your room, because she's close, and you're nocturnal anyway, so you'd be up to help her should she need anything." 

The detective cocked his head. He had a third option, but the idea of it sent heat flooding to his face. "Or... You _both_ could sleep in my room. I wouldn't mind." He was awful at hinting. 

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh! You want me to..." 

"I presumed it would have been much easier to do it that way, if we really are... Together, now. I assumed we wouldn't be needing two bedrooms." He explained quickly, heat quickly rising to his cheeks. _Too much too soon._ He thought, kicking himself mentally. 

The doctor, however, just laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson will have a fit for sure, now." He replied, grinning from ear to ear. "As long as I get the side closest to the door." 

Sherlock nodded, and he suddenly felt warmth spreading all over his chest. John was moving back home, he was moving (hopefully permanently) into Sherlock's bed, and now, there was a baby. _As long as I get the side closest to the door._ That was more than just a preference, this was a very John Watson way of saying 'I love you most in this world, and I want to be there to protect you if need be', and it was possibly the sweetest thing Sherlock had ever heard. It only reminded him that it was real. 

Before the silence fell over the room, John, who was still watching Sherlock with the baby like he were the proudest man in the world, cleared his throat. "Do you think she's okay? Effie, I mean, do you think she's okay?" 

Sherlock bit at his lip. "For once, I have no clue. All I know is that she escaped somehow, and she's out there, somewhere, probably causing more trouble." He replied, wishing there was more to say. 

"Do you think we'll see her again?" 

He shrugged. "Woman like her? Who knows." 

Surprisingly enough, John seemed alright with that answer.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! So, this chapter is in the form of a letter sent by Effie to our boys. This is to (hopefully) explain everything and tie up any loose ends. BUT, the story is NOT done yet. I plan on writing two more chapters, then we'll be done. So, do not fret, my lovelies, there is still more!!

_My dearest Consulting Detectives,_

_Hello, boys! It's been quite a while, hasn't it? Six months. What a shock this must be._

_By now, you've probably figured out that I'm not dead, or at least, the real me isn't dead. I would have hoped that you had this figured out by now, I'd be a bit disappointed if you hadn't. But, you can't always be right, although I usually am. How's domestic life, old darlings? I bet it isn't as dull as you always said, Sherlock. How's the baby? I know there's no return address, but I was tempted to put one down because I am absolutely_ desperate _for baby pictures. What did you name her? Oh, I bet she's just_ beautiful!

_Anyhow, I'm rambling._

_I've decided that I'm going to fill in the rest of the puzzle for the both of you, just so you're not in the dark anymore. I know how annoying that can be. So, I suppose I'll start from the beginning. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary... This is a lot, so prepare yourselves for a lot of reading. I was originally hired by James Moriarty to get Magnussen off of his back. You see, in this little game with you that Jim played, Magnussen was the ringleader, the mastermind, the grand architect, if you will. He didn't like you, Sherlock, you somehow spit in his tea, and he wanted you checked out. (Quite literally, too, I'm afraid, he was a real creepy fucker) He told Jim to go after you, so, he did, although Jim originally wanted to leave you alone. At around the same time, Miss. Morstan was getting in the way of things, making messes she couldn't clean up, and causing problems. She was a bit... Well, jealous, actually. She was unhappy about her ex-husband's choice of partner. Jim wanted the two problems eliminated, so, he hired me._

_Magnussen was easy to deceive, the big bad day on Bart's rooftop took care of that. He was the one who arranged for Jim's suicide anyway, but it was easy to fake. Mary was a bit more complicated._

_I was there, of course, on that day. I was instructed to keep my eyes on Mary after Jim's 'death'. He told her before he left that he would have people watching her, making sure she stayed out of trouble. Jim and Moran (his prized sniper, if you need the connection) were pretty sick of Mary, so they were pretty indifferent to what happened after that, just as long as she kept to her mission of 'disposing' of you if you came back from the grave. We all knew that you would, Sherlock, there was no doubt behind that. The rest you know; Mary wooed the gorgeous army doctor, fell in love by mistake, didn't have the heart to kill his best friend, so she had him kill Magnussen to get off doing it guilt free, as to not hurt John. She didn't suspect that you would find out the truth about her, but you did, and she worked around it. Simple. Not pleasant, but simple._

_Now, here's where it gets fun._

_Once I caught on to what Mary was doing, I arranged for Jim Moriarty to make a little comeback from the grave. That was quite fun, although I know you lot were positively shitting yourselves about it. But, it was just to scare Mary. I mean, God, we couldn't have you running off to the Middle East on us, Sherlock, that would have been a terrible thing to see! You would have died for_ real! _Now that,_ that _is monstrous, killing Sherlock Holmes. Anyhow, I knew that Mary would call me to help her get the job done, considering how she and I were actually good "friends" in the past, so I came up with a little scam of my own, to repay my debt to Sherlock for saving my life, and my secret debt to Sebastian Moran for sparing my life back in Afghanistan. But, that's a different story._

_The night of the crime, Mary sent me a text saying that you two were meeting for drinks, and the job had to be done that night. I called a few old friends, including Sebastian Moran himself, to meet you two in the alley way on your way home (we were spying, sorry), and throw John back at Baker St. with my little messages, while I took care of Sherlock. I knew you were too smart, and you would be too angry to tell your wife your findings, John, so I didn't worry about it. Once I had you all under the same roof, I revealed to Mary the truth._

_I didn't want to kill her. I really didn't. I_ had _hoped that she would have gone peacefully, surrendered, and we would have gotten her for her crimes, she would have gone to prison, and once the baby was born, Baby Watson would have gone right to John. I never wanted to kill her. But, I had a feeling that she would shoot me. It was to be expected, and personally, I don't blame her. You know that silly police phrase, "wear the best, protect your chest"? Well, if you put blood packets over top of a bullet proof vest, you can make a gunshot wound look pretty convincing. When she shot me, the blood was mine, but it was taken out prior to the meeting. Like I said, I had anticipated a gunshot wound. What I hadn't counted on, was her turning the gun on John. I figured she would go after Sherlock first, which would give John time to overtake her, but she went for him instead, so, I had to act. I do apologize for that, John, I never wanted to kill her. But, I saved three lives._

 _After that, it was all planned out. I convinced you two to go with Mary's ambulance, and the handsome DI Lestrade was kind enough to wait with me. I've been shot before, so I'm good at acting. The ambulance was tricky, but I managed. The same men who got kidnapped you in the first place, including Moran, were able to obtain an ambulance, and raced to the scene. They checked my vitals, and did all of the nifty medical stuff, then we were in the ambulance, and off to the "hospital". On the way there, I stripped off the bloody, gross stuff, changed into something nicer, then left with Moran to the airport, leaving the other goons to ditch the ambulance, disguises, and the bloody clothes. I was tempted to stop at the hospital to see you guys, but, then I would have had to talk to people, and_ nothing _is more unappealing than having to_ talk _to people._

_So, there you have it. That's the end of the story._

_Well, not the end._

_The game never ends._

_There is one more mystery I've decided to include. I told you, Sherlock, that if you were a good boy, I'd tell you what I know about Moriarty, and I know that it's the question that's been burning in your mind for months. Is Jim Moriarty_ actually _alive? The answer is both yes and no. Where is he now? I will not disclose his location to you, but let me say that he and his new husband, Sebastian, are doing just fine, and they're living in domestic bliss. It's quite lovely, actually, they had me over for tea last month. Gorgeous home, but of course, you know how stylish Jim is. So, no, he is not dead, physically, however, he is dead in the sense that he will not be coming back for you. He's been retired from the day he pulled the trigger, and he's not coming back for you ever again. He and Sebastian are doing just fine being retired._

_As for me, I'm technically dead too. Effie Taras is, at least. It's strange, being so mundane and simple for once in my life. But, I have to admit, I like it. I won't tell you where I am either, sorry, lovelies, but I can say, I'm working as a personal, live-in bodyguard, and it's pretty great. I still get to play with guns. Like I said, I go visit Jim and Bassy every few months, just to check in. It's... Quite lovely. It's a different life, but it's nice. I'm happy._

_So, I guess I should end this by saying that even though that little pop-up of Jim's is the last you'll ever see of him, I doubt it's the last you'll ever see of me. Should something require my attention, I'll be heading to London right away, and I'll be sure to meet up with you. Maybe we can do dinner and a murder. But, until then, enjoy your lives, you two. You've been through hell and back, the both of you, and you deserve to be happy for once. Go solve your murders, go be daddies, go be lovely, strange consulting husbands, have fun, and_ be happy. _You've earned it._

_Till next time, old darlings,_

_Dana Carlisle_

_P.S. My girlfriend, Irene, sends her regards. She says you three are old friends. Ta!_


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm sorry this chapter took so long to write up, I was visiting my fiancé who lives two hours away from me, and I wanted to spend time with him, since I don't see him often. I'm really sorry it took so long, and I really hope you guys understand. 
> 
> Also, this is the last official chapter of the story, but, there will be a short epilogue, which I hope you all will enjoy, and it will definitely wrap up the story. 
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy, I love you all, and once again, I'm sorry it took so long.

About 908 miles away from London, in the city of Verona, Italy, Jim Moriarty strutted down the gorgeous stone backstreets of the city, smiling cheerfully to himself as he went to meet his husband at home. In his hands, he was carrying two small paper bags that had bottles of wine in it that he and Sebastian both liked, as well as one that Dana Carlisle had quite an affinity for. It was dinner night. Irene Adler and Dana Carlisle had just come into town from Montpellier to have a double date with the husbands. Sebastian was cooking, of course, he always cooked. He was fabulous at it, and he actually had gone as far as to all but ban his husband from the kitchen all together, often sending him out to get wine while he cooked to keep him out. Jim actually didn't mind.

Their lives had become quite wonderful over the last few years, after they got away from England and the awful games. It was domestic, but wonderful. Of course, they still worked worked, but not to the degree that they had in the past. It was actually quite perfect. They had a beautiful penthouse that overlooked the city, and it was possibly the best place for them. They loved their lives, and of course, having Dana and Irene visit as often as they did was fun.

Upon stepping up to their flat, Jim waved to Adalina, the sweet old lady next door who Sebastian occasionally did renovation projects for (for which she would reward with desserts, because neither of them would take her money) before turning the key in the door, but not before laughing at her comment about how much wine he was carrying. The flat already smelled delicious, and Jim's mouth began to water before he even got to the kitchen. "Is there anything for me to sample, tiger?" He called to his husband as he placed the wine on the counter.

Sebastian, who was busy stirring the sauce he had made from scratch, laughed. "Not this time, kitten, sorry." He turned to beam at him in the doorway. "You got the wine?"

Jim nodded, pulling each bottle out. "Barbera d'Asti for Irene and I, because we're classy, Verdicchio for you and Dana, because you're weird." He teased gently, placing both bottles on the counter.

"We're not weird for liking white wine. Also, Verdicchio goes good with the particular dish I'm making, so it works." Seb protested. "Besides, Barbera is too dry for me."

"You live in Italy, you throw rug, how can you _not_ like red wine?"

Seb only laughed and leaned down to kiss his husband. "Dana and Irene will be here in a bit." He said, going back to the stove.

Jim nodded. "Wonderful. I'll get the table ready." He said, walking away. "Also, Adalina said she was going to check up on us later because I came home with four bottles of wine and she wants to make sure we're being responsible."

That got Sebastian to laugh. "Us? Irresponsible? I'm almost insulted."

The ex-criminal rolled his eyes, and continued to straighten up the house while his husband began to sing an old song that Jim remembered from Seb listening to it on repeat all of the time in the shower when they lived back in London. Sebastian Moran was an awful singer, as he was utterly tone deaf, but Jim didn't mind, because it was adorable, and it always made him giggle. He loved Sebastian Moran with all of his heart, even if he sang like a dying cat.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the front door, and both me went to greet the women of the hour. Irene looked as gorgeous as always with her hair down and her tight red dress and fancy pumps, while Dana, who generally preferred comfort to class, was dressed more like Jim was, in a pair of tight black jeans and a loose-fitting black t-shirt, although her boots made her over six feet tall. Her hair was still short, but was now light blonde, as opposed to the ink black it had been in the past. When she walked through the door, Jim smiled a bit when he saw the outline of the Grach in the waistband of her jeans. _Always the body guard._ He thought.

He and Dana shared a brief hug, which was still a bit strange for Jim, although he had to say, he didn't mind. "You're looking good, Jim." She commented. "I expected Sebastian to plump you up a bit with all of the food he makes."

"Oh, trust me, he's tried." Jim replied, ignoring the playful glare from his husband.

The Ukrainian grinned. "I'm glad you two are doing well."

The ex-criminal glanced over at his husband, who was pouring Irene a glass of Barbera d'Asti, and smiled. "I am too."

About an hour later, the four were sitting out on the large balcony, eating the amazing meal Sebastian had prepared and just chatting. It was a horribly domestic moment, but, it was nice. Irene was gushing over the trip to New York that she and Dana had just taken while trying to convince Jim to go at least once to shop, while Seb tried to shut her up 'because Jim doesn't need any more cloths', which of course, made them all laugh.

"So, Dana," Sebastian finally asked, once the shopping conversation had ended. "Have you come out of hiding to Holmes and Watson yet?"

The Ukrainian nodded and took a sip of her wine. "I sent a long, long fucking letter to them the other day with no return address that explained everything. I'm still desperate for baby pictures, but I doubt I'll see the beautiful child until I go visit." She replied cheerfully.

"You know, we should invite the two of them to dinner here, sometime." Irene offered, only half joking.

Jim laughed. "Right, of course, because Sherlock Holmes is going to sit in the same room as me and eat dinner. He'd shoot me under the table before I got to dessert."

Sebastian sent him a glare. "He'd have to get through me first." He short back.

"Bassy, you forget, Sherlock has his own strapping soldier boy." Dana said. "Johnny-boy's a tough little cupcake."

"Watson's his damsel." The sniper argued.

Irene laughed. "Oh, no, I think it's the other way around."

"Look, it doesn't matter," Jim interjected. "I still don't think that either one of them would ever, in a million years, find this to be a good idea."

Dana shrugged. "Maybe so, but I'm still going to see them. Did I tell you he wiped my record?" She asked with a grin.

Sebastian gave her a weird look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that my record is completely clear. According to them, I work for the Secret Service. I know it was his brother's doing, but, it's still wiped clear. I don't know why he did it, he just did."

"Well, you did save his life. And Watson's for that matter." Jim said as he twirled a few strands of pasta around his fork.

Irene squeezed her girlfriend's hand. "And the baby's." She added.

Jim nodded at her. "Three lives, Miss. Carlisle. The criminal in me is disgusted with you."

The Ukrainian laughed. "The criminal in me is disgusted, too." She joked.

Irene, however, rolled her eyes, but it was quickly softened by the smile that was clear in her eyes. "Seriously though, darling, I would have been surprised if he didn't find some way to repay you after what you did, even if you didn't ask for it. You saved all of them."

Dana smiled and lifted her glass of wine to her lips. "He saved my life first." She reminded them. She shared a look with Sebastian Moran across the table, who also knew what it meant when Dana Carlisle had a debt to pay, as he had been in that situation before. The two locked eyes, but only for a moment. There wasn't much to say after that.

** _______________ **

The letter dropped dropped from Sherlock's fingers onto the coffee table below, stealing the breath out of both men as they watched the heavy paper flutter away from them. It took them both a minute to recover from what they just read. After six months of waiting, they finally received word back from the strange girl they had all but presumed dead, but now that they had, they were unable to think.

Sherlock looked down at the envelope that was still gripped on his hand, analyzing it again. It was heavy, obviously expensive paper, with no return address, like she had said, although it was addressed to both John and Sherlock in purple ink. John had recognized the handwriting before Sherlock had time to look at the letter properly.

"She's alive." John gasped, gazing up at Sherlock. His eyes were the size of saucers, and his jaw was nearly touching the floor. "She's _alive,_ Sherlock. Effie's alive and... And _dating Irene Adler."_

The detective bit the inside of his mouth. "So it would seem."

"Fucking _hell."_ John raked his hand through his hair and stepped away. His breathing was heavy, the color had nearly drained from his face, and he had to hold onto the back of the chair to keep from falling over. "That woman is bloody brilliant. Completely mad, but absolutely _bloody_ brilliant."

Sherlock hated to agree with that statement, but, John was right. "She fooled everyone. Even me." He couldn't help but sound a bit disappointed.

John let out an almost breathless laugh. "She got Magnussen too, Sherlock."

He couldn't argue with that either.

"Do you think she's telling the truth about Moriarty?" The doctor asked a bit nervously. "I mean, the man is a psychopath, no doubt about it, I just can't see him getting married, having a house, having a _husband_ for that matter."

Sherlock shrugged. "She told me before you showed up that she thought it was funny that Mary always seemed to fall for gay, blonde soldiers that were in love with dark haired geniuses." He answered, thinking back on that night. He shook his head at the memory, and sighed.

"But, do you think that he's _really_ gone? For good, I mean."

"She's got no reason to lie, John. Effie Taras is-or was-a lot of things, but a liar was no one of them. She never lied to us, not once. She may not have actually told the truth, but, she was never a liar. She's telling us the truth about Moriarty. He's done. It's over." Sherlock let the envelope drop down to the table on top of the letter, and walked over to his chair to sit down. He could feel John's eyes boring holes into the top of his head, but he refused to look up.

John hesitated. "You sound almost disappointed." He said.

The detective shook his head. "I'm not. He won't come after us anymore. Our family is safe, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone is safe. That's enough for me."

"Well, if Effie, or Dana, whatever her name is, is to be believed, he wasn't really coming after us to begin with." John scoffed.

"Irrelevant. We're safe."

"Then, why are you sulking?"

"I am not _sulking."_

"You're always sulking."

Sherlock glared.

John held his gave for a moment, then sighed, and stepped around his chair to sit down in front of the detective. He took Sherlock's hand between his own, and squeezed it lightly. "You forget, my love, that I know you better than anyone else on the face of the Earth. I know you're upset about something. Now, tell me. What's wrong?" He asked, his voice full of concern.

The detective didn't answer at first. He really didn't know why he was upset about the outcome of the incident, as he really had no reason to be. Moriarty was gone, he was married and retired to some remote city somewhere, where he was never coming back. Dana Carlisle was alive, dating a dominatrix, and working as her personal live-in bodyguard. He and John were together, they had a family, and while it may be a bit unconventional with their jobs and lifestyle, but it was a family all the same.

So, why was he upset?

Eventually, he shook his head. "I don't know." He breathed exasperatedly. "Maybe it's because she got the better of me. Since Magnussen, I've made it a priority to never let that happen, and yet, it was happening all under my nose. All of this, Moriarty, Mary, Magnussen, it was all practically all one large riddle that everyone was in on, and it took me until this letter to figure it out. I should have known. I should have..."

"Sherlock, you need to stop that." John interrupted squeezing his hand tighter.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Stop what?"

The doctor sighed. "Setting yourself on fire."

"Do explain, John."

John took a deep breath and got down on his knees in front of the chair, still holding Sherlock's hand tightly with his own. He offered him a smile, one that he knew melted Sherlock's heart like ice in the sunlight. "If there is one thing in the world I have learned in my years as a doctor, I've learned that you can't always win. Okay, sure, Dana Carlisle did get the better of us, but, she did it for you. And, look what that got us, yeah? Moriarty is retired, married, and never coming back. We got the baby, and I personally think we're doing just fine, not to mention the best part."

"What's the best part?" Sherlock said with a tiny smile forming at his lips. He already knew the best part, he just loved to hear John say it.

"I'd say the best part is that after years of pining and definitely not talking like we should have from the beginning, I get to wake up every morning with the most beautiful, brilliant, _amazing_ man I have ever met in my entire life." John answered, reaching up and running his fingers lovingly across the detective's cheek just like he always did when they would wake up tangled in the sheets together.

Sherlock smiled, and pressed a soft kiss to John's palm. "I suppose that is the best part."

The doctor laughed, and got to his feet, pulling Sherlock up with him before wrapping his arms around his almost too thin waist and capturing his lips. Sherlock's heart fluttered, and he help but smile, which of course, made John laugh even more, and it all went downhill from there with the two erupting into giggles while John pulled Sherlock down onto his lap on the other chair. With John's nose nuzzled in his neck, Sherlock finally began to relax. John was right. _He usually is._

"Do you think she was serious?" John eventually asked, breaking the silence.

"Serious about what?"

"The whole 'dinner and a murder' thing?"

"Woman like her? Who knows."

John snickered. "I think Greg would have a bloody heart attack if she showed up at a crime scene."

"Probably."

"Maybe it's better if she doesn't come, after all, she's technically still a criminal."

Sherlock shook his head, making John give him a strange look. "I had it worked out with Mycroft when we went to clear everything up after that night that if, and this was still quite a large if at the time, _if_ Dana Carlisle came back alive, she would have the credentials of a Secret Service agent under Mycroft Holmes. She's not considered a threat, she's not considered a criminal, in fact, no one actually knows her past record. I had it wiped. If Lestrade were to look her up, he'd get nothing but an MI6 record, which is confidential. Only we know the truth. I thought of it as a way to say thank you for what she did for us."

John was speechless. His jaw had dropped again, and he was staring at Sherlock like a deer in the headlights. "You... You had her record wiped." He repeated, obviously in shock.

The detective furrowed his eyebrows. "Not good?"

"No, no, it's... Fine. I just... I just didn't know." John replied, rubbing the back of his neck apprehensively. "That was... Very good of you, love." He pulled Sherlock closer and held him close, occasionally pressing soft kisses to his neck, laughing quietly when they made his partner shiver.

Sherlock let John explore every inch of his exposed throat with his lips, and it always sent a very welcomed shiver down his spine when the tip of John's nose would lightly brush at his skin. He loved this part of John. Romance with John, Sherlock decided, was like a thriller film. It was filled with twists and turns, all unexpected and all of them leaving you begging for more. Sometimes, he would get the sweet, careful, compassionate John that would stroke his skin lovingly while they lounged about in bed. That John would take baths with him after a dreadful, grueling case and gently massage his skin in the warm water, relieving the tension there, and would let him talk and talk and talk until he was hoarse, all while smiling down at him like he were the greatest prize in the world. Other times, he would get the funny, ridiculous best friend John that would get drunk with him (when they got a break from parenting and cases) and play stupid board games with him and make him laugh until his stomach hurt. That John never let him forget that he was more than his lover or his partner. That John never let him forget that Sherlock was his best friend.

Then of course, there was the John that was currently grazing his teeth across the sweet spot on Sherlock's neck, causing a low, rumbling moan escape the detective's lips.

He _loved_ this John.

Sherlock got off of his partner's lap and pulled him by his hand over to the black sofa where he lay back and allowed John to tower over him. The weight of John's body against his sent a wave of heat over his skin. John's fingers were pulling at the buttons of his shirt, ready to slip it off of Sherlock's slender shoulders, but, he stopped to bite down again on the sweet spot. Sherlock threw his head back against the sofa, holding back a noise of pure ecstasy. Sherlock was found to be quite vocal in bed, which of course, only turned John on more. When John ran his fingers down the exposed skin on his chest, all the way down to his hip bone, every nerve ending in his body lit up like it were on fire, and the feeling was almost enough to make him cry out as John's hand travelled lower...

Then, from the room behind them, the baby cried out as she woke up from her afternoon nap.

Both men froze. Sherlock closed his eyes with a groan while John collapsed lightly on top of him. "Fuck."

John laughed. "Wouldn't be the first time." He reminded him.

"I know." Sherlock whined. "But, God, couldn't she wake up when we're done?"

"Nope." The doctor sighed and pushed himself up, crawling over Sherlock and making an attempt to straighten himself out (which Sherlock found ridiculous, because the baby wouldn't know). "I'm going to go see what she needs."

"Hmm." Sherlock pouted.

John smiled down at him, then pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Come on, you. Your daughter needs you."

The detective rolled his eyes. "When she interrupts what could have been a brilliant session of afternoon sex, she's _your_ daughter." He grumbled.

"Get up, you berk."

"Alright, alright." He pushed himself into a sitting position, and began buttoning his shirt. "You go on ahead, I'll be in in a moment."

"Better." John pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and hurried off toward their bedroom to take care of their daughter.

Sherlock straightened himself up, and got to his feet to leave, but hesitated when his gaze dropped to the letter on the table. He picked it up once again and read it over, smiling down at the purple ink that stared back up at him. He wasn't exactly sure why he was smiling, but for whatever reason it was, he didn't question it. He thought about that mad woman who brought them together, and shook his head. _Thanks Effie._ He thought.

With that, he folded the letter back up, and slid it into the drawer of the side table, where he knew it was safe. After that, Sherlock smiled, and walked back to join his partner and his baby girl, still smiling for no reason at all.

Or perhaps, for every single last reason in the world.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, this is it. I know this epilogue is short, but, I chose not to make it long. This was a lot of fun to write, I had a great time doing it, and I'm glad that everyone who read it enjoyed it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and I'll see you all (hopefully) next time, on whatever the fuck I decide to write next. 
> 
> I love you all!

**~One Year Later~**

Married life.

Beautiful, brilliant, extraordinary.

A man of forty-one comes home from a short day at the clinic where he works and walks up the seventeen steps of 221B Baker St. after sending a brief greeting to his landlady. He opens the door and his eyes immediately drop to the floor where his husband, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, is lying on his side on the carpet, reading a large book on neurotoxins while their daughter sits against his stomach and chews absentmindedly on the ear of her stuffed lamb that she doesn't go anywhere without. The two men lock eyes, and they both smile.

The doctor drops his keys and wallet on the table where he always leaves them and gets down on his knees to pick up his daughter and kiss his husband. The toddler shouts nonsense noises at him for the next few minutes and he just agrees with everything she thinks she's saying while he makes a cup of tea for himself. His husband laughs and prepares food for the child. They already agreed to order Angelo's home tonight, but, that'll be later.

Only an hour later, they receive a call from the Detective Inspector about a murder-suicide that he wants them to investigate. The husbands agree to come and take the baby downstairs to the landlady who agrees to watch her while they go work.

The murders are exhilarating. It turns out to be a double murder instead of a murder-suicide as they originally thought, but, the parents, a mother and her second husband were getting married, and the first husband, a drug addict, didn't want to lose custody of his son, so, he murdered both of them, staging it to look like a murder-suicide while he escaped with his son. The detective fires of his deductions at a rapid pace, solving the crime in less that a few minutes, all while his husband stands by and praises him. With help from the step-brother, who discovered the murder, they track down the father after a long, insane chase, and find the teenager in the trunk of a car, unconscious, but alive.

After the case, the husbands arrive back home, breathless and heads spinning from the high, and they barely make in up the steps before they're stripping off cloths and gasping for one another while they collapse onto the bed, neither one completely certain how they made it to the bedroom. They sink into the covers, savoring every inch of each other's bodies, savoring every breath, every gentle brush of skin... This has very little to do with sex. This has very little to do with being rough and holding back screams as they sometimes had to do. This was about the closeness of their physical bodies, and wanting to be connected in every way they possibly could be. They were together, emotionally, mentally, legally, of course, but this, this was about the feeling that rushed through the bloodstream at every passionate touch when their atoms sparked and every brush felt like a fire. This was about taking each other apart piece by piece, and filling the space with their pure love and devotion for one another. This was about reminding one another that this, being together, was not chimerical. Not anymore.

Married life.

Beautiful, brilliant, extraordinary.

And John Watson and Sherlock Holmes love every minute of it.


	19. A peak at the sequel, Retrouvailles (Coming Soon.......ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Retrouvailles (French): The happiness of meeting again after a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE COME BACK TO LIFE!!! So, I'm finally going to be posting again, and, I thought I'd give you guys the sneak peak at what's to come. 
> 
> By popular demand, I brought back this story from its' metaphorical grave, so, here it is! I said there would be a sequel, so, here's your little sneak peak at it!! 
> 
> Enjoy everyone!!

The air in London was warm that night, unusually for that time of the spring, but it was sweet and warm, and the entire city was sleeping peacefully. Even the cars on the road at two in the morning were passive and considerate of those asleep in their beds while they hustled along. It was a gentle night in London. 

Across town, a figure dressed in a full body black suit, wearing a hockey mask and cradling a gun in their hand, scaled the side of Shad Sanderson Bank, and with a quick flick of the wrist, opened the window and slipped quietly inside. They knew the ins and outs of the building, from the cameras to the heat sensors, as they had spent two weeks on the building's outline and blueprints. 

The figure slipped silently across the room and typed in the code to the miniature vault (that had been built to look like a computer hard drive) that was attached under the desk which contained over one hundred billion pounds in bearer bonds from the United States, which is where the bank insisted in storing them for safe keeping. An abnormally stupid error for a bank, and especially stupid for a bank that was supposed to have the highest security in all of London. A small smile pulled at the figure's lips, and in the reflection of the metal door, they could see their own eyes smiling back at them with a mischievous glint.

They were so involved in pushing through the code screens that they didn't even see the blinking red light from the motion sensor in the corner.

From the streets below, the entirety of the Metropolitan Police force was arriving on the scene, waiting to stop the robbery up on the top floor. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade spoke quietly to his other officers, and told them to wait for his command. He looked up toward the top of the building where the alert had apparently come from, and took a deep breath. Just another night.

The figure in black finished slipping the last of the bearer bonds into the sleek back pack that they had brought along, and slid it over their shoulders, ready to run. They closed the vault door, and got to their feet, ignoring the weight of the paper on their back and stepping back toward the window. A soft curse stained their lips when they saw the police below, and they began to run the other way, knowing that the police were probably on their way up already. They had miscalculated. 

Greg ordered the officers inside, and watched as they surrounded the building, and he stood his ground outside, watching the back doors, just in case. 

The figure blended back in with the darkness as they took the back staircase down to the front offices where they had to duck behind desks and boxes to keep the police from seeing them. Once they were sure that they were out of sight of the police, they slipped out the back door, and began to run. They had to get away. 

"Stop where you are!" Came a rough, gravelly voice from behind the building. Out of the corner of their eye, they could see the tall, silver-haired Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard coming toward them with a gun ready. "Stay right where you are, and put your hands above your head. Don't try to run. Just do what I say, and this can be easy." He growled, his feet scraping across the pavement as he got closer and closer. 

 _Shit._ The robber sighed and silently apologized for what they were about to do. 

With less than a second to plan, the criminal charged forward and hauled themself up onto a large Dumpster, despite the shout of protest from the DI behind them. When he was close enough, they swing around and kicked the man in the side of the head, and then sprinted away from him, hoping to get as far as they could before he came to. 

The criminal threw themself down back alleyways, barely able to hear the sound of sirens over the sound of their pounding heart. They could hear Greg Lestrade right behind on foot, and they tried to push their legs further, trying to put enough distance between them as possible. When they saw the fence they could climb to get away, they felt a wave of relief. _Only a few more meters..._

A shot rang out through the alleyway and Greg Lestrade watched as the robber fell to the ground. He lowered his gun and let out a heavy sigh as he approached the now unconscious figure on the ground. There was a cut on his cheek from where he had been kicked, but he ignored it. Getting down into a crouch, he rolled the criminal over, and checked for weapons, which they had none of, as they had just dropped their gun a few feet away, and was careful to avoid the gunshot wound. Gently, he curled his fingers under the soft knit of the ski mask, and pulled it carefully off of the robber's face. He saw the familiar facial structure and features, and his heart skipped a beat. "Jesus Christ..." He whispered in shock.

"Sir! Are you alright? You're bleeding!" Sally Donovan, who had caught up in one of the cars, shouted in his direction as she ran forward to meet him. 

Greg ignored her question, and waved her away, turning around to meet her concerned eyes. "Go get John and Sherlock on the phone. Do it _now."_ He ordered, his voice wavering in fear and disbelief. 

Sally, obviously choosing not to argue, backed away with her eyes wide. 

The Detective Inspector got to his feet, and locked his eyes on the figure below him,. He needed Sherlock and John. He couldn't even stop his hands shaking enough to light his cigarette, he just stood there, staring into Dana Carlisle's face. 


End file.
